ELLA  VHE       \  WU£QX 


UNIVERSITY  OF 
CAttrORWA 

SAN  OtEGO 


presented  to  the 

LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN  DIEGO 

by 
FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIBRARY 


MR.   JOHN  C.   ROSE 


donor 


AN    ERRING   WOMAN'S    LOVE 


AN  ERRING  WOMAN'S  LOVE 


BY 

ELLA   WHEELER  WILCOX 

AUTHOR    OK 
"  POEMS   OF    PASSION,"   "  POEMS    OF   PLEASURE,"    "  MAURINE,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 

LOUISE  MEARS  AND  W.  P.  HOOPER 


NEW    YORK 

LOVELL,   CORYELL   &   COMPANY 

43,   45    AND   47    EAST  TENTH    STREET 


COPYRIGHT,  1892, 

BY 

ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX 


CONTENTS 


AN  ERRING  WOMAN'S  LOVE, 5 

A  SONG  OF  REPUBLICS, 25 

WORTH  WHILE,  .........  29 

COLEUR  DE  ROSE, 31 

MEMORIAL  DAY — 1892,        .......  34 

LIFE'S  TRACK,          ........  37 

WHEN  BABY  SOULS  SAIL  OUT, 39 

AN  ODE  TO  TIME, 42 

A  MARRIED  COQUETTE, 45 

NEW  YEAR,      ......         ...  51 

DOUBLE  CARNATIONS, 53 

SWIMMING  SONG, 55 

REGRET  AND  REMORSE, 57 

EASTER  MORN, 58 

BLIND, 60 

Two  WOMEN,           ........  62 

As  You  Go  THROUGH  LIFE, 64 

THE  YELLOW-COVERED  ALMANAC, 66 

SUCCESS,      ..........  70 

IT  ALL  WILL  COME  OUT  RIGHT,   .....  73 

THE  LITTLE  WHITE  HEARSE, 75 

REALIZATION 77 

THE  LADY  AND  THE  DAME, 78 

LOVE'S  SUPREMACY, 81 


2  Contents. 

PAGE 

THE  P^;AN  OF  PEACE, 83 

THE  ETERNAL  WILL,      .......  SO 

INSIGHT, 88 

HEAVEN  AND  HELL,        .......  90 

A  WOMAN'S  LOVE,       .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  gi 

REFORM, 94 

To  ANOTHER  WOMAN'S  BABY, 95 

DIAMONDS, 96 

RUBIES, 96 

SAPPHIRES, 97 

TURQUOISE, 97 

MEMORY'S  RIVER,    ........  98 

"HAS  BEEN," 102 

A  MINOR  CHORD,    ........  104 

LAST  LOVE, 105 

DEATH'S  PROTEST, 106 

DUTY'S  PATH,      .........  107 

SEPTEMBER, 109 

• 

MARCH, no 

THE  SUMMER  GIRL,         .         .        .         .        .         .         .       in 

SUN  SHADOWS, 114 

THOUGHTS,       .        .        .        .        .        .         .         .        .115 

THE  END  OF  THE  SUMMER 116 

"HE    THAT    LOOKETH," IJg 

WAIL  OF  AN  OLD-TIMER, 121 

CONCENTRATION,     ........  124 

A  WARNING, 125 

WAS,  Is,  AND  YET-TO-BE,       ......  126 

MISTAKES, 129 

DUAL, 131 

THE  RAPE  OF  THE  MIST, 133 


I'AGE 

THE  ALL-CREATIVE  SPARK, 135 

BE  NOT  CONTENT, 137 

ACTION, 139 

Two  ROSES, 141 

SHRINES,     ..........  143 

SATIETY, 145 

THE  WATCHER,           ........  146 

A  SOLAR  ECLIPSE, 148 

THE  DEPTHS,      .........  149 

A  SUGGESTION,       .         .         .        .         .         .        .         .150 

LIFE'S  OPERA,     .........  152 

LUCK, 153 

THE  SALT  SEA-WIND, 154 

NEVER  MIND, 156 


AN    ERRING    WOMAN'S    LOVE. 
PART   I. 

SHE  was  a  light  and  wanton  maid  : 

Not  one  whom  fickle  Love  betrayed, 

For  indolence  was  her  undoer. 

Fair,  frivolous,  and  very  poor, 

She  scorned  the  thought  of  toil,  in  youth, 

And  chose  the  path  that  leads  from  truth. 

More  women  fall  from  want  of  gold, 
Than  love  leads  wrong,  if  truth  were  told  ; 
More  women   sin  for  gay  attire 
Than  sin  through  passion's  blinding  fire. 
Her  god  was  gold  :    and  gold  she  saw 
Prove  mightier  than  the  sternest  law 
With  judge  and  jury,  priest  and  king; 


An  Erring  Woman s  Love. 

So,  made  herself  an  offering 

At  Mammon's  shrine ;  and  lived  for  power, 

And  ease,  and  pleasures  of  the  hour. 

Who  looks  beneath  life's  outer  crust 

Is  satisfied  that  God  is  just ; 

Who  looks  not  under,  but  about, 

Finds  much  to  make  him  sad  with  doubt. 

For  Virtue  walks  with  feet  worn  bare, 

While  Sin  rides  by  with  coach  and  pair  : 

Men  praise  the  modest  heart  and  chaste, 

And  yet  they  let  it  go  to  waste, 

And  follow,  fierce  to  have  and  hold 

Some  creature,  wanton,  selfish,  bold. 

She  saw  but  this,  life's  outer  side, 
No  higher  faith  was  hers  to  guide ; 
She  worshipped  gold,  and  hated  toil, 
And  hence  her  youth  with  all  its  soil, 
With  all  its  sins  too  dark  to  name, 
Of  secret  crimes  and  public  shame, 


An  Erring  Wo  mans  Love. 

With  all  its  trail  of  broken  lives, 

Of  ruined  homes,  neglected  wives, 

And  weeping  mothers.     Proud  and  gay 

She  went  her  devastating  way 

With  untouched  brow  and  fadeless  grace. 

Not  time  but  feeling  marks  the  face. 

Sin  on  the  outer  being  tells 

Not  till  the  startled  soul  rebels  : 

And  she  felt  nothing  but  content. 

She  was  too  light  and  indolent 

To  worry  over  days  to  come. 

This  little  earth  held  all  life's  sum 

She  thought,  and  to  be  young  and  fair, 

Well  clothed,  well  fed,  was  all  her  care. 

With  pitying  eyes  and  lifted  head 

She  gazed  on  those  who  toiled  for  bread, 

And    laughed  to  scorn  the  talk  she  heard 

Of  punishment  for  those  who  erred, 

And  virtue's  certain  recompense. 

She  seemed  devoid  of  moral  sense, 


An  Erring  Woman's  Love. 

An  ignorant  thing  whose  appetites 
Bound  her  horizon  of  delights. 

Men  were  her  puppets  to  control ; 
Unconscious  of  a  heart  or  soul 
She  lived  and  gloried,  in  the  ease 
She  purchased,  by  her  power  to  please 
The  eye  and  senses.     Life's  one  woe 
Which  caused  her  pitying  tears  to  flow, 
Was  poverty.     Though  hearts  might  break 
And  homes  be  ruined   for  her  sake, 
She  showed  no  mercy.     But  when  need 
Of  gold  she  saw,  her  heart  would  bleed. 
The  lack  of  clothing,  fire  and  food, 
Was  earth's  one  pain,  she  understood. 
The  suffering  poor  oft  blest  her  name, 
Nor  questioned  whence  the  ducats  came, 
She  gave  so  freely.     Once  she  found 
A  fainting  woman  on  the  ground, 
A  wailing  child  clasped  to  her  breast. 
With  her  own  hands   she  bath'd    and  dress'd 


An  Erring  Woman's  Love. 

The  weary  waifs  !   gave  food  and  gold 
And  clothed  them  warmly  from  the  cold, 
Nor  guessed  that  one  she  lured    from  home 
Had  caused  that  suffering  pair  to  roam 
Unhoused,  neglected.     Then  one  day, 
Unheralded  across  her  way, 
The  conqueror  came.     She  knew  not  why, 
But  with  the  first  glance  of  his  eye, 
A  feeling,  new  and  unexplained, 
Woke  in  her  what  she  oft  had  feigned. 
And  when  his  arm  stole  near  her  waist, 
As  startled  maidens  blush  with  chaste 
Sweet  fear  at  love's  advances,  so 
She  blushed  from  brow  to  breast  of  snow. 
Strange,  new  emotions,  fraught  with  joy 
And  pain  commingled,  made  her  coy  ; 
But  when  he  would  have  clasped  her  neck 
With  gems  that  might  a  queen  bedeck 
And  offered  gold,  her  lips  grew  white, 
With  sudden  anger  at  the  sight 
Of  what  had  been  her  god  for  years. 


io  An  Erring  Woman's  Love. 

She  flung  them  from  her.     Then  such  tears 
As  only  spring  from  love's  despair 
Welled  from  her  eyes.     "  So,  lady  fair, 
My  gifts  are  scorned  ?  "  quoth  he,  and  laughed. 
"  Like  Cleopatra,  you  have  quaffed 
Such  lordly  pearls  in  draughts  of  wine, 
You  spurn  poor  simple  gems  like  mine. 
Well,  well,  fair  queen,  I'll  bring  to  you 
A  richer  gift  next  time Adieu." 

His  light  words  stung  like  lash  of  whip ; 
With  gasping  breath  and  ashen  lip 
She  strove  to  speak,  but  he  was  gone. 
She   kneeled  and  pressed  her  mouth  upon 
The  latch  his  hand  had  touched,  the  floor 
His  foot  had  trod,  and  o'er  and  o'er 
She  sobbed  his  name,  as  children  moan 
A  mother's  name  when  left  alone. 

Out  from  the  dim  and  roseate  gloom 
And  subtle  odors  of  her  room, 


An  Erring   Woman's  Lore.  II 

Accusing  memories  rose.     She  felt 

A  loneliness  that   seemed  to  belt 

The    universe  in   its  embrace. 

It  was  as  if  from  some  high  place 

A  giant  hand  had  reached  and  hurled 

To  nothingness  her  petty  world, 

And  left  her  staring,  awed,  alone, 

Up  into    regions  vast,  unknown. 

There   is  no  other   loneliness 

That  can  so  sadden  and    oppress 

As    when  beside  the  burned-out  fire 

Of  sated    passion    and  desire 

The    wakening  spirit,  in  a  glance, 

Beholds  its  lost  inheritance. 

She   rose  and  turned  the  dim  lights  higher, 

Brought  forth    rich  gems  and  grand  attire, 

And  robed    herself  in  feverish  haste  ; 

Before    the  mirror  posed  and  paced, 

With  jewels  on  her  breast  and  wrists; 

Then  sudden  clenched  her  little  fists 

And  beat  her  face  until  it  bled, 


12  An  Erring  Woman s  Love. 

And  tore  her   garments   shred  from  shred, 
Gazed  in   the  mirror,  spoke  her   name 
And  hissed  a   word  that   told  her  shame, 
Then   on    her  knees  fell   sobbing  there. 

There  are  sweet  messengers  of  prayer, 

Who  down  through  space  on  soft  wings  steal, 

And  offer  aid  to  all  who  kneel. 

Her  lips,  unused  to  pious  phrase, 

Recalled  some  words  of  bygone  days, 

And  "  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep 

I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep  " 

She  whispered  timidly,  and  then 

"  Lord  let  me  be   a  child  again 

And  grow  up  good."     The  strange  prayer  said, 

Like  some  o'er  weary  child,  her  head 

She  pillowed  on  her  arm,  and  wept 

Low,  shuddering  sobs,  until  she  slept 

And  dreamed  ;  and  in  that  dream  she  thought 

She  sat  within  a  vine-wreathed  cot  ; 

An  infant  slumbered  on  her  breast, 


Au  Erring  Woman's  Love.  13 

She  crooned  a  lullaby,  and  pressed 
Its  waxen  hand  against  her  cheek, 
While  one  too  proud  and  fond  to  speak, 
The  happy  father  of  the  child, 
Stood  near,  and  gazing  on  them,  smiled. 

She  woke  while  still  the  lullaby 
Was  on  her  lips — then  such  a  cry, 
As  souls  in  fabled  realms  below 
Might  utter,  voiced  her  awful  woe. 

The  mighty  moral  labor  pain 
Of  new-born  conscience  wracked  her  brain 
And  tore   her  soul.     She   understood 
The  meaning  now  of  womanhood, 
And  chastity,  and    o'er  her  came 
The  full,  dark  sense  of  all  her  shame. 
As  some  poor  drunken   wretch,  at  night, 
Wakes  up  to  know  his  piteous  plight, 
And  sees,  while  sinking  in   the  mire, 
Afar,  his  waiting  hearth-light's  fire  ; 


14  An  Erring   Woman  s  Love. 

So  now  she  saw  from  depths  of  sin, 
The  hearth-light  of  the  might-have-been. 

o  o 

How  beautiful,  how  like  a  star 

That  lost  light  shone,  but  ah,  how  far ! 

She  reached  her  longing  arms  toward  space, 

And  lifted  up  her  tear-wet  face. 

"  Oh,  God,"  she  wailed,  "  I  have  been  bad  ! 

I  see  it  all,  and  I  am  sad, 

And  long  to  be  a  good  girl  now. 

o  o  o 

Lord,  Lord,  will  some  one  show  me  how  ? 

Why,  men  have  trod  the  burning  track 

Of  sin  for  years,  and  then  gone  back ! 

And  cannot  I  for  sin  atone, 

Or  did  Christ  die  for  men  alone  ? 

I  want  to  lead  an  honest  life, 

I  want  to  be  his  own  true  wife 

And  hold  upon  my  breast  his  child." 

Then  suddenly  her  voice  grew  wild, 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  "  it    could  not  be, 

Those  infant  eyes  would  torture  me — 


An  Erring  Woman's  Love.  15 

Though  God  condoned  my  sinful  ways 
I  could  not  meet  my  child's  pure  gaze." 

She  hid  her  face  upon  her  knees, 
And  swayed  as  reeds  sway  in  a  breeze, 
"  Oh,  Christ,"  she  moaned,  "  could  I  forget 
There  might  be  something  for  me  yet : 
But  though  both  God  and  man  forgave, 
And  I  should  win  the  love  I  crave, 
Why,  memory  would  drive  me   mad." 

When  woman  drifts  from  good  to  bad, 
To  make  her  final  fall  complete, 
She  puts  her  soul  beneath  her  feet. 
Man's  dual  selves  seem  separate; 
He  leaves  his  soul  outside  sin's  rate 

o 

And  finds  it  waiting  when  he  tires 
Of  carnal  pleasures  and  desires. 
Depleted,  sickened  and  depressed, 
As  souls  must  be  with  such  a  test, 
Yet  strong  enough  to  help  him  grope 
Back  into  happiness  and  hope. 


1 6  An  Erring  Woman's  Love. 

But  woman,  far  more  complicate, 
Can  take  no  chances  with  her  fate ; 
A  subtle  creature,  finely  spun, 
Her  body  and  her  soul  are  one. 
And  now  this  erring  woman  wept 
The  soul  she  murdered  while  it  slept. 
She  felt  too  stunned  with  pain  to  think. 
She  seemed  to  stand  upon  a  brink ; 
Behind  her  loomed  the  sinful  past, 
Below  her,  rocks,  beyond  her,  vast 
And  awful  darkness.     Not  one  ray 
Of  sun  or  star  to  show  the  way ! 
She  drew  a  long  and  shuddering  breath  ; 
"  There  is  no  other  path  but  death 
For  me  to  tread,"  she  sighed,  "  and  so 
I  will  prepare  my  house  and  go." 

As  housewives  move  with  willing  feet 
And  skilful  hands  to  make  things  neat, 
And  ready  for  some  welcome  one, 
She  toiled  until  her  tasks   were  done. 


An  Erring   Woman's  Love.  17 

Then,  seated  at  her  desk,  she  wrote 

With  painful  care,  a  tear-wet  note. 

The  childish  penmanship  was  rude, 

111  spelled  the  words,  the  phrasing  crude  ; 

Yet  thought  and  feeling  both  were  there 

And  mighty  love  and  great  despair. 

"  Dear  heart,"  it  ran,  "  you  did  not  know 

How,  from  the  first,  I  loved  you  so, 

That  sin  grew  hateful  in  my  sight. 

And  so  I  leave  it  all  to-night. 

The  kiss  1  gave,  dear  heart,  to  you 

Was  love's  first  kiss,  as  pure  and  true 

As  ever  lips  of  maiden  gave. 

I  think  'twill  warm  my  lonely  grave, 

And  light  the  pathway  I    must  tread 

Among  the  hapless,  homeless  dead." 

"  When  God  formed  worlds,  He  failed  to  make 
A  path  for  erring  feet  to  take 
Back  into  light  and  peace  again, 
Unless  they  were  the  feet  of  men. 


1 8  An  Erring  Wo  mans  Love. 

When  woman  errs,  and  then  regrets, 

Her  sun  of  hope  forever  sets, 

And  life  is  hung  with  deepest  gloom. 

In  all  the  world  there  is  no  room 

For  such  as  she ;  and  so  I  hold 

That  death  itself  is  not  so  cold 

As  life  has  seemed,  since  by  love's  light 

I  saw  there  was  a  wrong  and  right, 

And  that  my  birthright  had  been  sold, 

By  my  own  hands,  for  tarnished  gold. 

I  hated  labor,  hence  I  fell  ; 

But  now  I  love  you,  dear,  so  well, 

No  greater  boon  my  soul  could  crave 

Than  just  to  toil,  a  galley  slave, 

Through  burdened  years  and  years  of  life, 

If  at  the  last  you  called  me  wife 

For  one  supreme  and  honored  hour. 

Alas !  too  late  I  learn  love's  power, 

Too  late  I  realize  my  loss, 

And  have  no  strength  to  bear  my  cross 

Of  loneliness  and  dark  disgrace. 


An  Erring  Woman  s  Love.  19 

There  cannot  be  another  place 

So  desolate,  so  full  of  fear, 

As  earth  to  me,  without  you,  dear. 

You  will  not  understand,   I   know, 

How  one  like  me  can  love  you  so. 

It  was  a  strange,  strange  thing.     Love  came 

So  like  a  swift,  devouring  flame 

And  burned  my  frail,  fair-weather  boat 

And  left  me  on  the  waves  afloat, 

With  nothing  but  a  broken  spar. 

The  distant  shores  seem  very  far ; 

I  cannot  reach  them,  so  I  sink. 

God  will  forgive  my  sins,   I  think, 

Because  I  die  for  love,  like   One 

The  good  Book  tells  about,  His  Son. 

For  erring  woman  death  can  bring 
No  pain  so  keen  as  memory's  sting. 
Good  night,  good-by.     God  bless  you,  dear, 
And  give  you  love,  and  joy,  and  cheer. 


2O  All  Erring   Woman's  Love. 

But  sometimes,  in  the  dark  night,  say 
A  prayer  for  one  who  went  astray, 
And  found  no  pathway  back,  and  died 
For  love  of  you — a  suicide." 

When  morn  his  glorious  pinions  spread 
They  found  the  erring  woman  dead. 


PART   II. 

She  woke  as  one  wakes  from  a  deep 
And  dreamless,  yet  exhausting  sleep. 

A  strange  confusion  filled  her  mind 
And  sorrows  vague  and  undefined, 

Like  half-remembered  faces  pressed 
To  memory's  window,  in  her  breast, 

Gazed  at  her  with  reproachful  eyes. 
She  felt  a  sudden,  dazed  surprise, 


An  Erring   Woman s  Love.  21 

Commingled  with  a  sense  of  dread, 
"  I  did  but  sleep — I  am  not  dead, 

The  potion  and  the  purpose  failed 
And  I  still  live,"  she  wildly  wailed. 

"  Nay  thou  art  dead,  rash  suicide  " 
A  sad  voice  spake :  and  at  her  side 

She  saw  a  weird  and  shadowy  crowd 
With  anguished  lips,  and  shoulders  bowed, 

And  orbs  that  seemed  the  wells  of  woe. 
She  shrieked  and  veiled  her  eyes.     "  No,  no  ! 

I  am  not  dead !     I  ache  with  life. 
An  earthly  passion's  hopeless  strife 

Still  tortures  me."     "  Yet  thou  art  dead." 
The  voice  with  sad  insistence  said. 

"  But  love  and  sorrow  and  regret 
All  die  with  death.     7  feel  them  yet." 


22  An  Erring   Woman s  Love. 

"  God  bade  thee  live,  and  only  He 
Can  say  when  thou  shalt  cease  to  be." 

"  But  I  was  sin-sick,  sad,  alone — 
I  thought  by  death  I  could  atone, 

And  died  that   Christ  might  show  me  how." 
"Christ  bore  His  burden,  why  not  thou?" 

"  Oh,  lead  me  to  His  holy  feet 
And  let  my  penance  be  complete." 

"  What !  thinkest  thou  to  find  that  path— 
Thou  who  hast  tempted  Heaven's  wrath 

By  thy  rash  deed?     Nay,  nay  not  so, 
Tis  but  perfected  spirits  go 

To  that  supreme  and  final  goal. 

A  self-sought  death  delays  the  soul. 

With  yonder  shuddering,  woeful  throng 
Of  suicides  thy  ways  belong. 


An  Erring  Woman's  Love.  23 

Close  to  the  earth  a  shadowy  band, 
Unseen  but  seeing  all,  they  stand 

Until  their  natural  time  to  die, 
As  God  intended,  shall  draw  nigh. 

On  earth,  repentant,  sick  of  sin, 

A  ministering  angel  thou  hadst  been, 

Whose  patient  toil  and  deeds  divine 
Had  rescued  souls  as  sad  as  thine. 

Each  deed  a  firm  ascending  stair 
To  lead  beyond  thy  great  despair. 

But  now  it  is  thy  mournful  fate 
To  linger  here  and  meditate 

On  thy  dark  past — to  stand  so  near 
The  earthly  plane  that  thou  canst  hear 

Thy  lover's  voice,  while  old  desire 
Shall  burn  within  thee  like  a  fire, 


24  An  Erring  Woman's  Love. 

And  grief  shall  root  thee  to  the  spot 
To  find  how  soon  thou  art  forgot. 

But  since  thou  hast  endured  the  woes 
That  only  fragile  woman  knows, 

And  loved  as  only  woman  can, 
Thou  shalt  not  suffer  all  that  man 

Must  suffer  when  he  interferes 

With  God's  great  law.    In  death's  dim  spheres 

That  justice  waits,  which  men  refuse. 
Thy  sex  shall  in  some  part  excuse 

Thy  desperate  deed.     When  God  shall  send 
A  second  death  to  be  thy  friend, 

Thou  need'st  not  fear  a  darker  fate — 
Go  forth  with  yonder  throng  and  wait." 


A  SONG  OF  REPUBLICS. 

FAIR  Freedom's  ship,  too  long  adrift — 

Of  every  wind  the  sport — 
Now  rigged  and  manned,  her  course  well  planned 

Sails  proudly  out  of  port ; 
And  fluttering  gaily  from  the  mast 

This  motto  is  unfurled, 
Let  all  men  heed  its  truth  who  read : 

"  Republics  Rule  the  World  !  " 

The  universe  is  high  as  God ! 

Good  is  the  final  goal ; 
The  world  revolves  and  man  evolves 

A  purpose  and  a  soul. 
No  church  can  bind,  no  crown  forbid 

Thought's  mighty  upward  course — 
Let  kings  give  way  before  its  sway, 

For  God  inspires  its  force. 


26  A  Song  of  Republics. 

The  hero  of  a  vanished  age 

Was  one  who  bathed  in  gore; 
Who  best  could  fight  was  noblest  knight 

In  savage   days  of  yore  ; 
Now  warrior  chiefs  are  out  of  date, 

The  times  have  changed.     To-day 
We  call  men  great  who  arbitrate 

And  keep  war's  hounds  at  bay. 

The  world  no  longer  looks  to  priest 

Or  prince  to  know  its  needs; 
Earth's  human  throng  has  grown  too  strom 

DO  « 

To  rule  with  courts  and  creeds. 
We  want  no  kings  but  kings  of  toil — 

No  crowns  but  crowns  of  deeds. 
Not  royal  birth  but  sterling  worth 

Must  mark  the  man  who  leads. 

Proud  monarchies  are  out  of  step 

With  modern  thought  to-day, 
For  Brotherhood  is  understood 


A  Song  of  Republics.  27 

And  thrones  must  pass  away. 
Men  dare  to  think.     Concerted  thought 

Contains  more  power  than  swords  : 
The  force  that  binds  united  minds 

Defeats  mere  savage  hordes. 

Man  needs  no  arbitrary  hand 

To  keep  him  in  control, 
He  feels  the  power  grow  hour  by  hour 

Of  his  expanding  soul ; 
In  God's  stupendous  scheme  of  worlds, 

He  knows  he  has  a  place. 
He  is  no  slave  to  cringe,  and  crave 

Some  worthless  monarch's  grace. 

As  ocean  billows  undermine 

The  haughty  shores  each  hour, 
Time's  sea  has  brought  its  waves  of  thought 

To  crumble  thrones  of  power ; 
And  one  by  one  shall  kingdoms  fall 

Like  leaves  before  the  blast, 


28  A  Song  of  Republics* 

As  man  with  man  combines  to  plan 
Republics  formed  to  last. 

Columbia  balked  a  tyrant  king, 

And  built  upon  a  rock, 
In  Freedom's  name,  a  shrine  whose  fame 

Outlived  the  century's  shock. 
Now  France  within  our  port  has  set 

Her  symbol  of  re-birth. 
Her  lifted  hand  tells  sea  and  land, 

Republics  light  the  earth. 

One  mighty  church  for  all  the  world 
Would  make  men  far  more  kind. 

One  government  would  bring  content 
To  many  a  restless  mind. 

Sail  on,  fair  ship  of  Freedom,  sail 
The  wide  sea's  breadth  and  length. 

""Till  worlds  unite  to  make  the  miedit 

o 

Of  "One  Republic's"  strength. 


WORTH    WHILE. 

IT  is  easy  enough  to  be  pleasant, 

When  life  flows  by  like  a  song, 
But  the  man  worth  while  is  one  who  will  smile, 

When  everything  goes  dead  wrong. 
For  the  test  of  the  heart  is  trouble, 

And  it  always  comes  with  the  years, 
And  the  smile  that  is  worth  the  praises  of  earth, 

Is  the  smile  that  shines  through  tears. 

It  is  easy  enough  to  be  prudent, 

When  nothing  tempts  you  to  stray, 
When  without  or  within  no  voice  of  sin 

Is  luring  your  soul  away  ; 
But  it's  only  a  negative  virtue 

Until  it  is  tried  by  fire, 
And  the  life  that  is  worth  the  honor  on  earth, 

Is  the  one  that  resists  desire. 


30  Worth   While. 

By  the  cynic,  the  sad,  the  fallen, 

Who  had  no  strength  for  the  strife, 
The  world's  highway  is  cumbered  to-day, 

They  make  up  the  sum  of  life. 
But  the  virtue  that  conquers  passion, 

And  the  sorrow  that  hides  in  a  smile, 
It  is  these  that  are  worth  the  homage  on  earth, 

For  we  find  them  but  once  in  a  while. 


COLEUR    DE    ROSE. 

I  WANT  more  lives  in  which  to  love 

This  world  so  full  of  beauty, 
I  want  more  days  to  use  the  ways 

I  know  of  doing  duty ; 
I  ask  no  greater  joy  than  this 

(So  much  1  am  life's  lover,) 
When  I  reach  age  to  turn  the  page 

And  read  the  story  over, 

(Oh  love  stay  near  ! ) 

Oh  rapturous  promise  of  the  Spring ! 

Oh  June  fulfilling  after ! 
If  Autumns  sigh,  when  Summers  die, 

'Tis  drowned  in  Winter's  laughter. 
Oh  maiden  dawns,  oh  wifely  noons, 

Oh  siren  sweet,  sweet  nights, 


32  Coleur  dc  Rose, 

i 

I'd  want  no  heaven  could  earth  be  given 
Again  with  its  delights, 
(If  love  stayed  near ! ) 

There  are  such  glories  for  the  eye, 

Such  pleasures  for  the  ear, 
The  senses  reel  with  all  they  feel 

And  see  and  taste  and  hear; 
There  are  such  ways  of  doing  good, 

Such  ways  of  being  kind, 
And  bread  that's  cast  on  waters  fast 

Comes  home  again,  I   find. 

(Oh  love  stay  near.) 

There  are  such  royal  souls  to  know, 

There  is  so  much  to  learn, 
While  secrets  rest  in  Nature's  breast 

And  unnamed  stars  still  burn. 
God  toiled  six  days  to  make  this  earth. 

I  think  the  good  folks  say — 
Six  lives  we  need  to  give  full  meed 


Coleur  de  Rose.  33 

Of  praise — one  for  each  day, 
(If  love  stay  near.) 

But  oh  !  if  love  fled  far  away, 

Or  veiled  his  face  from  me, 
One  life  too  much,  why  then  were  such 

A  life  as  this  wrould  be. 
With  sullen  May  and  blighted  June 

Blurred  dawn  and  haggard  night, 
This  dear  old  world  in  space  were  hurled 

If  love  lent  not  his  light. 

(Oh  love  stay  near.) 


MEMORIAL   DAY— 1892. 

THE  quiet  graves  of  our  country's  braves 
Through  thirty  Junes  and  Decembers 

Have  solemnly  lain  under  sun  and  rain, 
And  yet  the  Nation  remembers. 

The  marching  of  feet  and  the  flags  on  the  street 

Told  once  again  this  morning, 
In  the  voice  of  the  drum  how  the  day  had  come 

For  those  lowly  beds'  adorning. 

Then  swiftly  back  on  Time's  worn  track 
His  three  decades  seemed  driven, 

And  with  startled  eyes,  I  saw  arise 
From  graves  by  fancy  riven, 

The  Gray  and  the  Blue  in  a  grand  review. 
Oh,  vast  were  the  hosts  they  numbered : 


Memorial  Day — 1892.  35 

As  they  wheeled  and  swayed  in  a  dress  parade 
O'er  the  graves  where  they  long  had  slumbered. 

The  colors  were  not,  as  when  they  fought, 

Ranked  one  against  the  other, 
But  a  mingled  hue  of  gray  and  blue, 

As  brother  marching  with  brother. 

And   a  blue  flower  lay  on  each  coat  of  gray 

Like  forget-me-nots  on   a  boulder, 
And  the  gray  moss  lace  in  its  Southern  grace 

Was  knotted  on  each  blue  shoulder. 

The  vision  fled,  but  I  think  our  dead, 
If  they  could  come  back  with  the  living, 

Would  clasp  warm  hands  o'er  hostile  lands, 
Forgetting  old  wrongs  and  forgiving. 

'Mong  the  blossoms   of    Spring   that  you   gather 

and  bring 
To  graves  that  tho'  lowly  are  royal, 


36  Memorial  Day— 1892. 

Let  the  blue  flower  prevail,  though  modest  and 

pale, 
Since  it  speaks  of  the  hue  that   was  loyal. 

But  tie    each  bouquet  with  a   ribbon   of  gray 

And  lay  it  on  memory's  altar, 
For   the    dead    who    fought    for    the    cause    they 
thought 

Was  right,  and  who  did  not  falter. 


LIFE'S    TRACK. 

THIS  game  of  life  is  a  dangerous  play, 
Each  human  soul  must  watch  alway, 

From  the  first  to  the  very  last. 
I  care  not  however  strong  and  pure — 
Let  no  man  say  he  is  perfectly  sure 

The  dangerous  reefs  are  past. 

For  many  a  rock  may  lurk  near  by, 

That  never  is  seen  when  the  tide  is  high — 

Let  no  man  dare  to  boast. 
When  the  hand  is  full  of  trumps — beware, 
For  that  is  the  time  when  thought  and  care 

And  nerve  are  needed   most. 

As  the  oldest  jockey  knows  to  his  cost, 
Full  many  a  well-run  race  is  lost 


38  Life 's   Track. 

A  brief  half  length  from  the  wire. 
And  many  a  soul  that  has  fought  with  sin, 
And  gained  each  battle,  at  last  gives  in 

To  sudden,  fierce  desire. 

And  vain  seems  the  effort  of  spur  and  whip, 
Or  the  hoarse,  hot  cry  of  the  pallid  lip, 

When  once  we  have  fallen  back. 
It  is  better  to  keep  on  stirrup  and  rein, 
The  steady  poise  and  the  careful  strain 

In  speeding  along  Life's  track. 

A  watchful  eye  and  a  strong,  true  hand 
Will  carry  us  under  the  Judge's  stand, 

If  prayer,  too,  does  its   part. 
And  little  by  little  the  struggling  soul 
Will  grow  and  strengthen  and  gain  control 

Over  the  passionate  heart. 


WHEN    BABY   SOULS   SAIL  OUT. 

WHEN  from  our  mortal  vision 

Grown  men  and  women  go, 
To  sail  strange  fields  Elysian 

And  know  what  spirits  know, 
I  think  of  them  as  tourists, 

In  some  sun-gilded  clime, 
'Mong  happy  sights  and  dear  delights 

We  all  shall  find,  in  time. 

But  when  a  child  goes  yonder 

And  leaves  its  mother  here, 
Its  little  feet  must  wander, 

It  seems  to  me,  in  fear. 
What  paths  of  Eden  beauty 

What  scenes  of  peace  and  rest 
Can  bring  content  to  one  who  went 

Forth  from  a  mother's  breast. 


40  WJien  Baby  Souls  Sail  Out. 

In  palace  gardens,  lonely, 

A  little  child  will  roam, 
And  weep  for  pleasures  only 

Found  in  its  humble  home — 
It  is  not  won  by  splendor, 

Nor  bought  by  costly  toys, 
To  hide  from  harm  on  mother's  arm 

Makes  all  its  sum  of  joys. 

It  must  be  when  the  baby 

Goes  journeying  off  alone, 
Some  angel  (Mary  may  be), 

Adopts  it  for  her  own. 
Yet  when  a  child  is  taken 

Whose  mother  stays  below 
With  weeping  eyes,  through  Paradise, 

I  seem  to  see  it  go. 

With  troops  of  angels  trying 

To  drive  away  its  fear, 
I  seem  to  hear  it  crying 


Wlicn  Baby  Souls  Sail  Out.  41 

"  I  want  my  mamma  here." 
I  do  not  court  the  fancy, 

It  is  not  based  on  doubt, 
It  is  a  thought  that  comes  unsought 

When  baby  souls  sail  out. 


AN    ODE    TO    TIME. 

Ho !  sportsman  Time,  whose  chargers  fleet 
The  moments,  madly  driven, 
Beat  in  the  dust  beneath  their  feet 
Sweet  hopes  that  years  have  given ; 
Turn,  turn  aside  those  reckless  steeds, 
Oh  !    do  not  urge  them  my  way  ; 
There's  nothing  that  Time  wants  or  needs 
In  this  contented  by-way. 

You  have  down-trodden,  in  your  race, 
So  much  that  proves  your  power, 
Why  not  avoid  my  humble  place, 
Why  rob  me  of  my  dower  ? 
With  your  vast  cellars,  cavern  deep, 
Packed  tier  on  tier  with  treasures, 
You  would  not  miss  them  should  I  keep 
My  little  store  of  pleasures. 


An  Ode  to   Time.  43 

As  one  who  frightened,  flying  flings 

Her  riches  down  at  random, 

Your  course  is  paved  with  precious  things 

Life  casts  before  your  tandem  : 

The  warrior's  fame,  the  conqueror's  crown, 

Great  creeds  for  ages  cherished, 

Beneath  your  chariot-wheels  were  thrown 

And  crushed  to  earth  they  perished. 

Although  to  just  and  generous  deeds 

Your  heart  is  not  a  stranger, 

I  have  the  feeling  that  one  needs 

To  guard   his  wealth  from  danger. 

And  though  a  most  heroic  light 

Oft  on  your  pathway  lingers, 

I'd  hide  my  treasures,  if  I  might, 

From  contact  with  your  ringers. 

You  are  the  loyal  friend  of  Truth, 
Go  seek  her,  make  her  stronger, 
And  leave  the  remnant  of  my  youth 


44  •Aii  Ode  to   Time. 

To  me  a  little  longer. 

There's  work  enough  for  you  before 

Eternity  shall  wed  you  : 

Why  stoop  to  steal  my  simple  store, 

Why  make  me  shun  and  dread  you  ? 

You  do  not  need  my  joys,  I  say, 
Home,  love,  and  friends  united — 
I  beg  you  turn  and  go  the  way 
Where  wrong  waits  to  be  righted ; 
Or  pause,  and  let  us  chat  a  while  : 
I'll  listen  (not  too  near  you) 
For  Oh !  no  matter  how  you  smile, 
I  fear  you,  Time,  I  fear  you ! 


A    MARRIED    COQUETTE. 

SIT  still,  I  say,  and  dispense  with  heroics ! 

I  hurt  your  wrists  ?   Well,  you  have  hurt  me. 
It   is  time   you  found  out  that   all  men  are  not 
stoics, 

Nor  toys  to  be  used  as  your  mood  may  be. 
/  will  not  let  go   of  your  hands,  nor   leave  you 

Until  I  have  spoken.     No  man,  you  say 
Dared  ever  so  treat  you  before  ?     I  believe  you 

For  you    have   dealt    only   with   boys   till   to 
day. 

You  women  lay  stress  on  your  fine  perception, 

Your  intuitions  are  prated  about ; 
You  claim  an  occult  sort  of  conception 

Of  matters  which  men  must  reason  out. 


46  A  Married  Coquette. 

So  then,  of  course,  when  you  asked  me  kindly 
To  "  call  again  soon  "  you  read  my  heart ; 

I   cannot  believe  you  were  acting  blindly, 
You  saw  my  passion  for  you  from  the  start. 

You  are  one  of  these   women    who  charm  with 
out  trying; 

The  clay  you  are  made  of  is  magnet  ore, 
And  I  am  the  steel ;  yet,  there's  no  denying 

You  led  me  to  loving  you  more  and  more. 
You    are    fanning    a    flame    that    may    burn    too 
brightly, 

Oft  easily  kindled,  but  hard  to  put  out ; 
I  am  not  a  man  to  be  played  with   lightly, 

To  come  at  a  gesture  and  go  at  a  pout. 

A  brute  you  call  me,  a  creature  inhuman ; 

You  say  I  insult  you,  and  bid  me  go. 
And  you  ?     Oh  you  are  a  saintly  woman, 

With  thoughts  as  pure  as  the  drifted  snow. 
Pah !  you  are  but  one  of  a  thousand  beauties 


A  Married  Coquette.  47 

Who  think  they  are  living  exemplary  lives. 
They  break  no  commandments,  and  do  all  their 

duties 
As  Christian  women  and  spotless  wives. 

But  with  drooping  of  lids,  and  lifting  of  faces, 

And  baring  of  shoulders,  and  well-timed  sighs, 
And  the  devil  knows  what  -other  subtle  graces, 

You  are   mental  wantons,    who   sin  with  the 

eyes. 

You  lure    Love  to  wake,  yet   bid    passion   keep 
under, 

You  tempt  us  to  fall  but  bid  reason  control; 
And  then  you  are  full  of  an  outraged  wonder, 

When  we  get  to  wanting  you,  body  and  soul. 

Why,  look  at  yourself !     You  were  no  stranger 
To  the  fact  that  my  heart  was  already  on  fire. 

When  you  asked  me  to  call  you  knew  my  danger, 
Yet  here  you  are,  dressed  in  the  gown  I  ad 
mire  ; 


48  A  Married  Coquette. 

And  half  of  the  evil  on  earth  is  invented 
By  vain,  pretty  women  with  nothing  to  do 

But    to   keep    themselves   manicured,    powdered, 

and  scented 
And  seek  for  sensations,  amusing  and  new. 

But   when  /  play   at    Love   at  a  woman's   com 
manding, 

I  always  am  certain  to  win  one  game ; 
So  there — there — there  !    I   will  leave  my  brand 
ing 
On  the  lips  that  are  free  now  to  ,cry  "  Shame, 

shame ! " 

You  hate  me?     Quite  likely!     It  does  not  sur 
prise  me. 
Brute  force  ?     I  confess  it ;  but  still  you   it'cre 

kissed  ; 
And  one   thing   is   certain — you    cannot    despise 

me 

For  having  been  played  with,  controlled,  and 
dismissed. 


A  Married  Coquette.  49 

And  the   next  time   you   see    that  a  man  is  at 
tracted 
By   the  beauty   and    graces   that    are    not    for 

him, 

Don't  lead  him  on  to  be  half  distracted — 
Keep    out    of   deep   waters   although   you   can 

swim. 

For  when  he  is  caught  in  the  whirlpool  of  pas 
sion, 
Where    many    bold    swimmers    are    seen    to 

drown, 

A  man  will  reach  out  and,  in  desperate  fashion, 
Will  drag  whoever  is  nearest  him  down. 

Though     the     strings     of     his     heart     may     be 

f 
wrenched  and    riven 

By  a  maiden  coquette  who  has  led  him  along, 
She  can  be  pardoned,  excused,  and  forgiven, 

For  Innocence  blindfolded  walks  into  wrong. 
But  she  who  has  willingly  taken  the  fetter 

That  Hymen  forges  at  Cupid's  command — 


50  A  Married  Coquette. 

Well,  she  is  a  woman   who  ought  to  know  bet 
ter; 
She  needs  no  mercy  at  any  man's  hand. 

In  the  game  of  hearts,  though  a  woman  be  win 
ner, 

The  odds  are  ever  against  her,  you   know; 
The  world  is  ready  to  call  her  a  sinner, 

And  man   is  ready  to  make  her  so. 
Shame  is  likely,   and  sorrow  is  certain, 

And   the  man    has   the   best    of   it,  end    as    it 

may. 
So  now,  my  lady,  we'll  drop  the  curtain, 

And  put  out  the  lights.    We  are  through  with 
our  play. 


NEW   YEAR. 

NEW  YEAR,  I  look  straight  in  your  eyes, 
Our  ways  and  our  interests  blend, 
You  may  be  a  foe  in  disguise 
But  I  shall  believe  you  a  friend. 
We  get  what  we  give  in  our  measure, 
We  cannot  give  pain  and  get  pleasure, 
I  give  you  good  will  and  good  cheer 
And  you  must  return  it,  New  Year. 

We  get  what  we  give  in  this  life, 
Though  often  the  giver  indeed 
Waits  long  upon  doubting  and  strife 
Ere  proving  the  truth  of  my  Creed. 
But  somewhere,  someway,  and  forever 
Reward  is  the  meed  of  endeavor — 
And  if  I  am  really  worth  while, 
New  Year,  you  will  give  me  your  smile. 


52  New   Year. 

You  hide  in  your  mystical  hand 
No  "  luck  "  that   I  cannot  control, 
If  I  trust  my  own  courage  and  stand 
On  the  Infinite  strength  of  my  soul. 
Man  holds  in  his  brain  and  his  spirit 
A  power  that  is  God-like,  or   near  it, 
And  he  who  has  measured  his  force 
Can  govern  events  and  their  course. 

You  come  with  a  crown  on  your  brow, 

New  Year,  without  blemish  or  spot. 

Yet  you,  and  not  I,  sir,  must  bow, 

For  time  is  the  servant  of  thought. 

Whatever  you  bring  me  of  trouble 

Shall  turn  into  good  and  then  double. 

If  my  spirit  looks  up  without  fear 

To  the  Source  that  you  came  from,  New  Year. 


DOUBLE  CARNATIONS. 

A  WILD  pink  nestled  in  a  garden  bed, 
A  rich  Carnation  flourished  high  above  her, 
One  day  he  chanced  to  see  her  pretty  head 
And  leaned  and  looked  again,  and  grew  to  love 
her. 

The  moss  (her  humble  mother),  saw  with    fear 
The  ardent  glances   of  the  princely  stranger  ; 
With  many  an  anxious  thought  and  dewy  tear 
She  sought  to  hide  her  darling  from  this  danger. 

O  O  O 

The  gardener-guardian  of  this  noble  bud 
A  cruel  trellis  interposed  between  them. 
No  common  Pink  should  mate  with  royal  blood, 
He  said,  and  sought  in  every  way  to  wean  them. 

The  poor  Pink  pined  and  faded  day  by  day : 
Her  restless  lover  from  his  prison  bower 


54  Double  Carnations. 

Called  in  a  priestly  bee  who  passed  that  way, 
And  sent  a  message  to  the  sorrowing  flower. 

The  fainting  Pink  wept  as  the  bee  drew  near, 
Droning  his  prayers,  and  begged  him  to  confess 

her. 

Her  weary  mother,  over-taxed  by  fear, 
Slept,  while  the  priest  leaned  low   to  shrive  and 

bless  her. 

But  Lo !  ere  long  the  tale  went  creeping  out, 
The  rich  Carnation  and  the  Pink  were  married  ! 
The  cunning  bee  had  brought  the  thing  about 
While  Mamma  Moss  in  Slumber's  arms  had  tar 
ried. 

And  proud  descendants  of   that    loving  pair, 
The  offspring  of  that  true   and  ardent  passion, 
Are  famous  for  their  beauty  everywhere, 
And   leaders  in    the   floral  world  of  fashion. 


SWIMMING  SONG. 

I  AM  coming,  coming  to  thee, 
My  strong-armed  lover,  the  Sea  ! 
On  thy  great,  broad  breast,  I  will  lie  and  rest, 
And  thou  shalt  talk  to  me. 

I  have  come  to  thee,  all  unsought, 

• 

I  have  stolen  an  hour  from  thought ! 

And  peace  and  power,   thou   canst  give  in  that 

hour, 
Which  thy  rival  Earth  gives  not. 

Alone  here,  under  the  sky, 
And  the  whole  world  drifting  by ! 
Thy  breast  of  brine  thrills  close  to  mine, 
While  the  cloudless  sun  sails  high. 

I  fly,  but  thou  givest  chase — 
Thy  kisses  are  on  my  face ! 


56  Swimming  Song. 

Be  bold  and  free  as  thou  wilt,  oh  Sea, 
There  is  life  in  thy  close  embrace. 

Throat  and  cheek  and  tress 
Are  damp  where  thy  salt  lips  press ! 
There  is  strength  and  bliss  in  thy  daring  kiss, 
And  joy  in  thy  bold  caress. 

And  what  is  the  Earth  to  me? 
I  have  left  it  all,  oh  Sea  ! 
With  its  dust  and  soil,  and  strife  and  toil, 
For  one  glad  hour  with  thee. 


REGRET  AND  REMORSE. 

REGRET  with  streaming  eyes  doth  seem  alway 
A  maiden  widowed  on  her  wedding  day. 

While    dark   Remorse    with    eyes    too    sad    for 

tears 
A  crushed,  desponding  Magdalene  appears. 

One  with  a  hungering  heart  unsatisfied 
Mourns  for  imagined  joys  that  were  denied. 

The  other  pierced  by  recollected  sin, 
Broods   o'er    the    scars    of    pleasures    that    have 
been. 


EASTER  MORN. 

A  TRUTH  that  has  long  lain  buried 

At  Superstition's  door, 
I  see,  in  the  dawn  uprising, 

In  all  its  strength  once  more. 

Hidden  away  in  the  darkness, 

By  Ignorance  crucified, 
Crushed  under  stones  of  dogmas — 

Yet  lo !  it  has  not  diedo 

It  stands  in  the  light  transfigured, 

It  speaks  from  the  heights  above, 
"Each  soul  is  its  oivn  redeemer 
There  is  no  law  but  Loir." 


Easter  Morn.  50 

And  the  spirits  of  men  are  gladdened 
As  they  welcome  this  Truth  re-born, 

With  its  feet  on  the  grave  of  Error 
And  its  eyes  to  the  Easter  Morn. 


BLIND. 

WHATEVER  a  man  may  think  or  feel 

He  can  tell  to  the  world  and  it  hears  aright : 

But  it  bids  the  woman  conceal,  conceal, 

And  woe  to  the  thoughts  that   at  last  ignite. 

o  o 

She  may  serve  up  gossip  or  dwell  on  fashion, 
Or  play  the  critic  with  speech   unkind, 

But  alas  for  the  woman  who  speaks  with  passion, 
For  the  world  is  blind — for  the  world  is  blind, 

It  is  woman  who  sits  with  her  starved  desire, 
And  drinks  to  sorrow  in  cups  of  tears : 

She  reads  by  the  light  of.  her  soul  on  fire 
The  secrets  of  love  through  lonely  years: 

But  out  of  all  she  has  felt  or  heard 

Or  read  by  the  glow  of  her  soul's  white  flame, 


Blind.  6 1 

If  she  dare  but  utter  aloud  one  word — 

How   the    world  cries  shame — how    the  world 
cries  shame. 

It  cannot  distinguish  between  the  glow 

Of  a  gleaming  star,  in  the  sky  of  gold, 
Or  a  spent  cigar  in  the  dust  below — 

'Twixt  unclad  Eve,  or  a  wanton  bold; 
And  ever  if  woman  speaks  what  she  feels 

(And  feels  consistent  with  God's  great  plan), 
It  has  cast  her  under  its  juggernaut  wheels, 

Since  the  world  began — since  the  world  began. 


TWO   WOMEN. 

I  KNOW  two  women,  and  one  is  chaste 

And  cold  as  the  snows  on  a  winter  waste. 

Stainless  ever  in  act  and  thought 

(As  a  man,  born  dumb,  in  speech  errs  not.) 

But  she  has  malice  toward  her  kind, 

A  cruel  tongue  and  a  jealous  mind. 

Void  of  pity  and  full  of  greed, 

She  judges  the  world  by  her  narrow  creed  : 

A  brewer  of  quarrels,  a  breeder  of  hate, 

Yet  she  holds  the  key  to  "  Society's  "  Gate. 

The  other  woman,  with  heart  of  flame, 
Went  mad  for  a  love  that  marred  her  name  : 
And  out  of  the  grave  of  her  murdered  faith 
She  rose  like  a  soul  that  has   passed    through 
death. 


Two   Women.  63 

Her  aims  are  noble,  her  pity  so  broad, 
It  covers  the  world   like  the  mercy  of  God. 
A  Soother  of  discord,  a  healer  of  woes, 
Peace  follows  her  footsteps  wherever  she  goes. 
The  worthier  life  of  the  two,  no   doubt, 
And  yet   "  Society  "  locks  her  out. 


AS   YOU  GO   THROUGH   LIFE. 

DON'T    look  for   the   flaws   as    you    go    through 
life; 

And  even  when  you  find  them, 
It  is  wise  and  kind    to  be  somewhat  blind, 

And   look  for  the  virtue  behind  them  ; 
For  the  cloudiest  night  has  a  hint  of  light 

Somewhere    in  its  shadows   hiding : 
It's  better  by  far  to  hunt   for  a  star, 

Than  the  spots  on  the  sun  abiding. 

The  current  of  life   runs  ever  away 
To  the  bosom  of  God's  great  ocean. 

Don't  set  your  force  'gainst  the  river's  course, 
And  think  to  alter   its  motion. 

Don't  waste  a  curse  on  the  universe, 
Remember,  it  lived  before  you  : 


As   You  Go   TliroitgJi  Life.  65 

Don't  butt  at  the  storm  with  your  puny  form, 
But  bend  and  let  it  go  o'er  you. 

The  world  will  never  adjust  itself 

To  suit   your  whims  to  the  letter, 
Some  things  must  go  wrong,  your  whole  life  long, 

And  the  sooner  you  know  it  the  better. 
It  is  folly  to  fight   with  the   Infinite, 

And  go  under  at  last  in  the  wrestle. 
The  wiser  man  shapes  into    God's  plan, 

As  water  shapes  into  a  vessel. 


THE   YELLOW-COVERED    ALMANAC. 

I  LEFT  the  farm  when  mother  died  and  changed 

my  place  of  dwelling 
To  daughter  Susie's  stylish  house  right  on  the 

city  street  : 
And  there  was  them  before  I  came  that  sort  of 

scared  me,  telling 
How    I    would    find    the   town    folks    ways    so 

difficult  to  meet  ; 
They   said  I'd  have   no    comfort  in  the  rustling, 

fixed  up  throng, 

And   I'd  have  to  wear  stiff  collars,  every  week 
day,  right  along. 

I  find    I    take   to    city  ways  just  like  a  duck  to 

water ; 

I  like  the  racket  and  the  noise  and  never  tire 
of  shows  : 


TJic   Yellow-Covered  Almanac.  67 

And   there's   no   end  of  comfort   in   the    mansion 

of  my  daughter, 
And    everything  is  right    at  hand    and    money 

freely  flows; 
And  hired  help  is  all  about,  just  listenin'  to  my 

call- 
But    I    miss   the   yellow    almanac    off    my    old 
kitchen  wall. 

The  house  is  full  of  calendars  from  attic  to  the 

cellar, 
They're    painted    in    all    colors    and    are    fancy 

like  to  see, 
But    in    this    one    particular    I'm    not    a    modern 

feller, 
And     the     yellow-covered     almanac    is     good 

enough  for  me. 
I'm  used  to  it,  I've  seen  it  round  from  boyhood 

to  old   age, 

And   I  rather  like  the  jokin'  at  the  bottom  of 
the  page. 


68  The   Yellow-Covered  Almanac. 

I    like    the  way  its  "  S  "  stood  out  to  show  the 

week's  beginnin' : 
(In    these    new  -  f angled    calendars    the     days 

seem  sort  of  mixed), 
And   the    man    upon    the   cover,  tho'   he    wa'n't 

exactly  winnin', 
With  lungs  and  liver  all  exposed  still  showed 

how  we  are  fixed  ; 
And    the    letters    and    credentials    that    was    writ 

to   Mr.  Ayer 

I've  often  on  a  rainy  day  found  readin'  pretty 
fair. 

I  tried  to  buy   one   recently,    there   wa'n't    none 

in  the  city! 
They  toted  out  great  calendars,  in  every  shape 

and  style. 
I  looked    at  'em    in    cold    disdain,  and    answered 

'em  in  pity — 

I'd    rather    have   my   almanac    than    all    that 
costly  pile ; 


The   Yellow-Covered  Almanac.  69 

And  tho'  I  take  to  city  life,  I'm  lonesome  after 

all 

For  that  old  yellow  almanac  upon  my  kitchen 
wall. 


SUCCESS. 

As  we  gaze  up  life's  slope,  as  we  gaze 
In  the  morn,  ere  the  dewdrops  are  dry, 

What  splendor  hangs  over  the  ways, 
What  glory  gleams  there  in  the  sky ; 
What  pleasures  seem  waiting  us,  high 

On  the  peak  of  that  beauteous  slope, 

What  rainbow-hued  colors  of  hope 

As  we  gaze. 

As  we  climb  up  the  hill,  as  we  climb, 
Our  hearts,  our  illusions,  are  rent : 

For  Fate,  who  is  spouse  of  old  Time, 
Is  jealous  of  youth  and  content. 
With  brows  that  are  brooding  and  bent, 

She  shadows  our  sunlight  of  gold, 

And  the  way  grows  lonely  and  cold 

As  we  climb. 


Success.  7 1 

As  we  toil  on,  through  trouble  and  pain. 
There  are  hands  that  will  shelter  and  feed  : 

But  once  let  us  dare  to  attain — 

They  will  bruise  our  bare  hearts  till  they  bleed. 
'Tis  the  worst  of  all  crimes  to  succeed, 

Know  this  as  ye  feast  on  a  crust, 

Know  this  in  the  darkness  and  dust, 

Ye  who  climb. 

As  we  stand  on  the  heights  of  success, 
Lo !  success  seems  as  sad  as  defeat ! 

Through  the  lives  we  may  succor  and  bless 
Alone  may  its  bitter  turn  sweet; 
And  the  world  lying  there  at  our  feet, 

With  its  cavilling  praise  and  its  sneer, 

We  must  pity,  condone,  but  not  hear, 

Where  we  stand. 

As  we  live  on  those  heights,  we  must  live 

With  the  courage  and  pride  of  a  god  ; 
For  the  world,  it  has  nothing  to  give 


72 


Success. 


But  the  scourge  of  the  lash  and  the  rod. 

Our  thoughts  must  be  noble  and  broad, 
Our  purpose  must  challenge  men's  gaze, 
While  we  seek  not  their  blame  or  their  praise 

As  we  live. 


IT    ALL    WILL    COME    OUT    RIGHT. 

WHATEVER  is  a  cruel  wrong, 

Whatever  is  unjust, 
The  honest  years  that  speed  along 

Will  trample  in  the  dust. 
In  restless  youth   I  railed  at  fate 

With  all  my  puny  might, 
But  now  I  know  if  I  but  wait 

It  all  will  come  out  right. 

Though  Vice  may  don  the  judge's  gown 

And  play  the  censor's  part, 
And  Fact  be  cowed  by  Falsehood's  frown 

And  Nature  ruled  by  art ; 
Though  Labor  toils  through  blinding  tears 

And  idle  Wealth  is  might, 
I   know  the  honest,  earnest  years 

Will  bring  it  all  out  ri^ht. 


74  //  All  Will  Come  Out  Right. 

Though  poor  and  loveless  creeds  may   pass 

For  pure  religion's  gold ; 
Though  ignorance  may  rule  the  mass 

While  truth  meets  glances  cold, 
I  know  a  law  complete,  sublime, 

Controls  us  with  its  might, 
And  in  God's  own  appointed  time 

It  all  will  come  out  right. 


THE    LITTLE   WHITE   HEARSE. 

SOMEBODY'S  baby  was  buried  to-day— 

The  empty  white  hearse  from  the  grave  rum 
bled  back, 
And  the  morning  somehow  seemed    less  smiling 

and  gay 
As  I  paused   on    the  walk   while    it   crossed    on 

its  way, 

And    a   shadow   seemed    drawn  o'er   the   sun's 
golden  track. 

Somebody's  baby  was  laid  out  to  rest, 

White  as  a  snowdrop,  and  fair  to  behold, 
And  the  soft  little  hands  were  crossed  over  the 

breast, 
And  those   hands    and    the    lips  and   the   eyelids 

were  pressed 
With  kisses  as  hot  as  the  eyelids  were  cold. 


76  The  Little   White  Hearse. 

Somebody  saw  it  go  out  of  her  sight, 

Under  the  coffin  lid — out  through  the  door ; 
Somebody  finds  only  darkness  and  blight 
All  through  the  glory  of  summer-sun  light; 
Somebody's  baby  will  waken  no  more. 

Somebody's  sorrow  is  making  me  weep  : 

I  know  not  her  name,   but  I  echo  her  cry, 
For  the  dearly   bought    baby   she    longed    so    to 

keep, 

The  baby  that  rode  to  its  long-lasting  sleep 
In  the  little  white  hearse  that  went  rumbling 
by. 

I  know  not  her  name,  but  her  sorrow  I  know  ; 
While   I    paused    on    the    crossing    I    lived    it 

once   more, 

And  back  to  my  heart  surged  that  river  of  woe 
That  but  in  the  breast  of  a  mother  can  flow  ; 
For   the   little   white    hearse    has    been,  too,  at 
my  door. 


REALIZATION. 

(At  the  Old   Homestead.) 

I  TREAD  the  paths  of  earlier  times 
Where  all  my  steps  were  set  to  rhymes. 

I  gaze  on  scenes  I  used  to  see 
When  dreaming  of  a  vague  To  be. 

I  walk  in  ways  made  bright  of  old 

By  hopes  youth-limned  in  hues  of  gold. 

But  lo!  those  hopes  of  future  bliss 
Seem  dull  beside  the  joy  that  is. 

My  noonday  skies  are  far  more  bright 
Than  those  dreamed  of  in  morning's  light, 

And  life  gives  me  more  joys  to  hold 
Than  all  it  promised  me  of  old. 


THE   LADY   AND   THE   DAME. 

So,  thou  hast  the  art,   good  dame,  thou    swear- 
est, 

To  keep  Time's  perishing  touch  at  bay 
From  the  roseate  splendor  of  the  cheek  so   ten 
der, 

And  the  silver  threads  from  the  gold  away. 
And  the  tell-tale  years  that  have  hurried  by  us 

Shall  tip-toe  back,  and,  with  kind  good-will, 
They  shall  take  the  traces  from  off  our  faces, 

If  we  will  trust  to  thy  magic  skill. 

Thou  speakest  fairly ;   but  if  I  listen 

And  buy  thy  secret,  and  prove  its  truth, 

Hast  thou  the  potion  and  magic  lotion 
To  give  me  also  the  heart  of  youth  ? 

With  the  cheek  of  rose  and  the  eye  of  beauty, 


The  Lady  and  the  Dame.  79 

And  the  lustrous  locks  of  life's  lost  prime, 
Wilt  thou  bring  thronging,  each  hope  and  long 
ing 
That  made  the  glory  of  that  dead  Time  ? 

When    the    sap    in   the    trees   sets    young    buds 

bursting, 
And  the   song    of    the   birds  fills  the   air   like 

spray, 
Will  rivers  of  feeling  come  once  more  stealing 

From  the  beautiful  hills  of  the  far-away  ? 
Wilt  thou  demolish  the  tower  of  reason 
And  fling  forever  down   into  the  dust, 
The   caution    time    brought    me,  the    lessons    life 

taught    me, 
And  put  in  their  places  my  old  sweet  trust  ? 

If  Time's  foot-print  from   my  brow  is  driven, 
Canst  thou,  too,  take  with  thy  subtle  powers, 

The  burden  of  thinking,  and  let  me  go  drinking, 
The  careless  pleasures  of  youth's  bright  hours  ? 


So  The  Lady  and  the  Daine. 

If  silver  threads  from  my  tresses  vanish, 

If    a    glow    once    more     in     my    pale    cheek 
gleams, 

Wilt  thou  slay  duty  and  give  back  the  beauty 
Of  days  untroubled  by  aught  but  dreams  ? 

When  the  soft  fair  arms  of  the  siren   Summer 

Encircle  the  earth  in  their  languorous  fold, 
Will  vast,  deep  oceans  of  sweet  emotions 

Surge    through    my  veins  as   they  surged    of 

old? 

Canst    thou   bring   back    from    a    day    long-van 
ished 

The  leaping  pulse  and  the  boundless  aim  ? 
I  will  pay  thee  double,  for  all  thy  trouble, 

If  thou  wilt  restore  all  these,  good  dame. 


LOVE'S   SUPREMACY. 

As  yon  great  Sun  in  his  supreme  condition 
Absorbs  small  worlds  and  makes  them  all  his 

own, 

So  does  my  love  absorb  each  vain  ambition 
Each    outside    purpose     which     my    life    has 

known. 

Stars  cannot  shine  so  near  that  vast  orb's  splen 
dor, 

They  are  content  to  feed  his  flames  of  fire; 
And  so  my  heart  is  satisfied  to  render 

Its  strength,  its  all,  to  meet  thy  strong  desire. 

As  in  a  forest  when  dead  leaves  are  falling, 
From  all  save  some  perennial  green  tree, 

So  one  by  one  I  find  all  pleasures  palling 
That  are  not  linked  with  or  enjoyed  by  thec. 

And  all  the  homage  that  the  world  may  proffer, 


82  Loves  Supremacy. 

I  take  as  perfumed  oils  or  incense  sweet, 
And  think  of  it  as  one  thing  more  to  offer 
And  sacrifice  to  Love,  at  thy  dear  feet. 

I  love  myself  because  thou  art   my  lover, 

My    name   seems    dear   since    uttered    by   thy 

voice  ; 
Yet  argus-eyed  T  watch  and  would  discover 

Each  blemish  in  the  object  of  thy  choice. 
I  coldly  sit  in  judgment  on  each  error, 

To  my  soul's  gaze  I  hold  each  fault  of  me, 
Until  my  pride  is  lost  in  abject  terror, 

Lest  I  become  inadequate  to  thee. 

Like  some  swift-rushing  and  sea-seeking  river, 

Which  gathers  force  the  farther  on  it  goes, 
So  does  the  current  of  my  love  forever 

Find  added  strength  and  beauty  as  it  flows. 
The  more  I  give,  the  more  remains  for  giving, 

The  more  receive,  the  more  remains  to  win. 
Ah  !  only  in  eternities  of  living 

Will  life  be  loner  enough  to  love  thee  in. 


THE   P^EAN   OF   PEACE. 

WITH  ever  some  wrong  to  be  righting, 

With  self  ever  seeking  for  place, 
The  world  has  been  striving  and  nVhtincr 

o  o  o 

Since  man  was  evolved  out  of  space. 
Bold  history  into  dark  regions, 

His  torchlight  has  fearlessly  cast, 
He  shows  us  tribes  warring  in  legions, 

In  jungles  of  ages  long  passed. 

Religion,  forgetting  her  station, 

Forgetting  her  birthright  from  God, 
Set  nation  to  warring  with  nation 

And  scattered  dissension  abroad. 
Dear  creeds  have  made  men  kill  each  other. 

Fair  faith  has  bred  hate  and  despair, 
And  brother  has  battled  with  brother 

Because  of  a  difference  in  prayer. 


84  The  Pcean  of  Peace. 

But  earth  has  grown  wiser  and  kinder, 

For  man  is  evolving  a  soul : 
From  wars  of  an  age  that  was  blinder, 

We  rise  to  a  peace-girdled  goal. 
Where  once  men  would  murder  in  treason 

And  slaughter  each  other  in  hordes, 
They  now  meet  together  and  reason, 

With  thoughts  for  their  weapons,   not  swords. 

The  brute  in  humanity  dwindles, 

And  lessens  as  time  speeds  along, 
And  the  spark  of  Divinity  kindles 

And  blazes  up  brightly  and  strong. 
The  seer  can  behold  in  the  distance 

The    race  that  shall  people  the  world  ; 
Strong  men  of  a  godlike  existence 

Unarmed,  and  with  war  banners  furled. 

No  longer  the  bloodthirsty  savage 

Man's  vast  spirit  strength  shall  unfold  ; 
And  tales  of  red  warfare  and  ravage 


The  Pcean  of  Peace.  85 

Shall  seem  like  ghost  stories  of  old. 
For  the  booming  of  guns  and  the  rattle 

Of  carnage  and  conflict  shall  cease, 
And  the  bugle  call,  leading  to  battle, 

Shall  change  to  a  paean  of  peace. 


THE   ETERNAL  WILL. 

THERE  is  no  thing  we  cannot  overcome. 
Say  not  thy  evil  instinct  is  inherited, 
Or  that  some  trait  inborn  makes  thy  whole  life 

forlorn, 

And  calls  down  punishment    that  is  not  mer 
ited. 

Back  of  thy  parents  and  grand-parents  lies 
The  Great   Eternal  Will.     That,  too,  is  thine 

Inheritance;   strong,  beautiful,  divine, 
Sure  lever  of   success  for  one  who  tries. 

Pry  up  thy  faults  with  this  great  lever,  Will. 

However  deeply  bedded  in  propensity; 
However  firmly  set,  I  tell  thee  firmer  yet 

Is   that   vast    power   that  comes    from  Truth's 
immensity. 


The  Eternal  Will.  87 

Thou  art  a  part  of  that  strange  world,   I  say. 

Its  forces  lie  within  thee,  stronger  far 
Than  all  thy  mortal  sins  and  frailties  are. 

Believe  thyself  divine,  and  watch,  and  pray. 

There  is  no  noble  height  thou  canst  not  climb. 
All   triumphs  may  be  thine    in   Time's  futur 
ity, 
If  whatsoe'er  thy  fault,   thou   dost   not   faint  or 

halt, 
But  lean  upon  the  staff  of  God's  security. 

Earth  has  no  claim  the  soul  can   not  contest. 

Know  thyself  part  of  that  Eternal  Source, 
And  naught  can  stand  before  thy  spirit's  force. 

The  soul's  divine  inheritance  is  best. 


INSIGHT. 

ON  the  river  of  life,  as  I  float  along, 

I  see  with  the  spirit's  sight 
That  many  a  nauseous  weed  of  wrong 

Has  root  in  a  seed  of  right. 
For  evil  is  good  that  has  gone  astray, 

And  sorrow  is  only  blindness, 
And  the  world  is  always  under  the  sway 

Of  a  changeless  law  of  kindness. 

The  commonest  error  a  truth  can  make 

Is  shouting  its  sweet  voice  hoarse, 
And  sin  is  only  the  soul's  mistake 

In  misdirecting  its  force. 
And  love,  the  fairest  of  all  fair  things 

That  ever  to  man  descended, 
Grows  rank  with  nettles  and  poisonous  things 

Unless  it  is  watched  and  tended. 


Insight.  89 

There  could  not  be  anything  better  than  this 

Old  world  in  the  way  it  began, 
And  though  some  matters  have  gone  amiss 

From  the  great  original  plan  ; 
And  however  dark  the  skies  may  appear. 

And  however  souls  may  blunder, 
I  tell  you  it  all  will  work  out  clear, 

For  good  lies  over  and  under. 


HEAVEN    AND    HELL. 

•WHILE  forced  to  dwell  apart  from  thy  dear  face 

Love,  robed  like  sorrow,  led  me  by  the  hand 
And  taught  my  doubting  heart  to  understand 

That  which  has  puzzled  all  the  human  race. 
Full  many  a  sage  has  questioned  where  in  space 

Those  counter  worlds  were?  where  the  mystic 

strand 
That  separates  them :    I  have  found  each  land, 

And  Hell  is  vast,  and  Heaven  a  narrow  space. 

In  the  small  compass  of  thy  clasping  arms 
In  reach  and  sight  of  thy  dear  lips  and  eyes 

There,  there  for  me  the  joy  of  heaven  lies. 
Outside,  lo !  chaos,  terrors'  wild  alarms 

And  all  the  desolation  fierce  and  fell 

Of  void  and  aching  nothingness,  makes  Hell. 

O  O  ' 


A    WOMAN'S    LOVE. 

So  vast  the  tide  of  Love  within  me  surging, 
It  overflows  like  some  stupendous  sea, 
The  confines  of  the  Present  and  To-be  ; 

And  'gainst    the   Past's   high  wall  I  feel  it  urg- 

jn<r 
1I1&» 

As  it  would  cry  "Thou  too  shalt  yield  to  me!" 

All  other  loves  my  supreme  love  embodies  ; 
I  would  be  she  on  whose  soft  bosom  nursed 
Thy    clinging    infant     lips     to    quench    their 

thirst ; 
She  who  trod  close  to  hidden  worlds  where  God 

is, 

That    she    might  have,  and    hold,  and    see   thee 
first. 


92  A    Woman's  Loir. 

I    would    be   she    who    stirred    the   vague    fond 

fancies, 
Of  thy  still  childish  heart  ;  who  through  bright 

days 

Went  sporting  with  thee  in  the  old-time  plays, 
And  caught  the  sunlight  of  thy  boyish  glances 
In  half-forgotten  and  long-buried  Mays. 

Forth  to  the  end,  and  back  to  the  beginning, 
My  love  would  send  its  inundating  tide, 
Wherein    all    landmarks    of    thy    past    should 

hide. 
If    thy    life's    lesson    must    be    learned    through 

sinning, 
My  grieving  virtue  would  become  thy  guide. 

For  I  would  share  the  burden  of  thy  errors, 
So  when  the  sun  of  our  brief  life  had  set, 
If  thou  didst  walk  in  darkness  and  regret, 
E'en  in  that  shadowy  world  of  nameless  terrors, 
My  soul  and  thine  should  be  companions  yet. 


A    Woman's  Love.  93 

And    I    would    cross    with    thee   those    troubled 

oceans 

Of  dark  remorse  whose  waters  are  despair  : 
All    things    my    jealous     reckless    love    would 

dare, 

So  that  thou  mightst  not  recollect  emotions 
In  which  it  did  not  have  a  part  and  share. 

There  is  no  limit  to  my  love's  full  measure, 
Its  spirit  gold  is  shaped  by  earth's  alloy; 
I  would  be  friend  and  mother,  mate  and  toy, 
I'd  have  thee  look  to  me  for  every  pleasure, 
And  in  me  find  all  memories  of  joy. 

Yet  though  I  love  thee  in  such  selfish  fashion, 
I  would  wait  on  thee,  sitting  at  thy  feet, 
And  serving  thee,  if  thou  didst  deem  it  meet. 

And  couldst  thou  give  me  one  fond  hour  of  pas 
sion, 

I'd  take  that  hour  and  call  my  life  complete. 


REFORM. 

THE  time  has  come  when   men  with  hearts  and 

brains 

Must  rise  and  take  the  misdirected  reins 
Of  government ;  too  long  left  in  the  hands 
Of  aliens  and  of  lackeys.     He  who  stands 
And  sees  the  mighty  vehicle  of  State 

Hauled    through   the    mire    to    some    ignoble 

fate 
And  makes  not  such  bold  protest  as  he  can, 

Is  no  American. 


TO  ANOTHER  WOMAN'S  BABY. 

I  LIST  your  prattle,  baby  boy, 
And  hear  your  pattering  feet 

With  feelings  more  of  pain  than  joy 
And  thoughts  of  bitter-sweet. 

While  touching  your  soft  hands  in  play 
Such  passionate  longings  rise 

For  my  wee  boy  who  strayed  away 
So  soon  to  Paradise. 

You  win  me  with  your  infant  art ; 

But  when  our  play  is  o'er, 
The  empty  cradle  in  my  heart 

Seems  lonelier  than  before. 

Sweet  baby  boy  you  do  not  guess 
How  oft  mine  eyes  are  dim, 

Or  that  my  lingering  caress 
Is  sometimes  meant  for  him. 


DIAMONDS. 

THE  tears  of  fallen  women  turned  to  ice 
By  man's  cold  pity  for  repentant  vice. 


RUBIES. 

THE  crimson  life-drops  from  a  virgin  heart 
Pierced  to  the  core  by  Cupid's  fatal  dart. 


SAPPHIRES. 

LOST  rays  of  light  that  wandered  off  alone 
And  down  through  space  were  hurled 

From  that  great  sapphire  sun  beyond  our  own 
Pale,  puny  little  world. 

TURQUOISE. 

A  BABY  went  to  heaven  while  it  slept, 

And    waking    missed    its    mother's    arms    and 
wept. 

Those  angel  tear-drops  falling  earthward  through 
God's  azure  skies,  into  the  turquoise  grew. 


MEMORY'S  RIVER. 

IN  nature's  bright  blossoms  not  always  reposes 
That   strange   subtle    essence   more    rare   than 

their  bloom, 

Which  lies  in  the  hearts  of  Carnations  and  roses, 
That    unexplained   something   by    men    called 

perfume. 
Though    modest    the    flower,    yet    great     is    its 

power 
And   pregnant   with    meaning   each   pistil   and 

leaf, 

If  only  it  hides  there,  if  only  abides  there, 
The    fragrance    suggestive    of    love,    joy,    and 
grief. 

Not  always  the  air  that  a  master  composes 
Can  stir  human  heart-strings  with  pleasure  or 
pain. 


Memory's  River.  99 

But  strange,  subtle  chords,  like  the  scent  of  the 

roses. 
Breathe  out  of  some  measures,  though  simple 

the  strain. 
And    lo !  when   you  hear   them,  you    love   them 

and  fear  them, 
You    tremble    with    anguish,    you   thrill    with 

delight. 
For  back  of  them  slumber  old  dreams   without 

number, 
And  faces  long  vanished  peer  out  into  sight. 

Those  dear  foolish  days  when  the  earth  seemed 

all  beauty, 

Before  you  had  knowledge  enough  to  be  sad, 
When  youth  held  no  higher  ideal  of  duty 
Than   just  to  lilt   on   through    the  world  and 

be  glad. 

On  harmony's  river,  they  seemed  to  float  hither 
With  all   the   sweet   fancies   that    hung  round 
that  time, 


IOO  Memory's  River. 

Life's   burdens   and    troubles  turn    into  air- bub 
bles 

And    break    on    the    music's    swift   current    of 
rhyme. 

Fair  Folly  comes  back  with  her  spell  while  you 

listen, 
And  points   to   the  paths   where   she  led  you 

of  old. 
You   gaze   on   past   sunsets,   you   sec  dead   stars 

glisten, 
You    bathe     in     life's     glory,    you    swoon    in 

death's  cold. 
All    pains   and    all    pleasures   surge    up   through 

those  measures, 

Your    heart     is    wrenched    open    with    earth 
quakes  of  sound. 

From    ashes    and    embers    rise   Junes    and    De 
cembers, 
Lost  Islands  in  fathoms  of  feeling  refound. 


Memory's  River.  101 

Some  airs  are  like  outlets  of  memory's  oceans, 

They  rise  in  the  past  and  flow  into  the  heart. 
And    down    them    float    ship-wrecks    of   mighty 

emotions, 
All   sea-soaked   and  storm-tossed   and    drifting 

apart. 
Their    fair    timbers    battered,    their    lordly   sails 

tattered, 
Their  skeleton    crew    of   dead    days    on    their 

decks — 
Then   a   crash   of   chords    blending,   a   crisis,   an 

ending, 
The  music  is  over,  and  vanished  the  wrecks. 


"HAS   BEEN." 

THAT    melancholy    phrase     "  It  might    have 

been," 

However  sad,  doth  in  its  heart  enfold 
A  hidden  germ  of  promise!  for  I  hold 
Whatever  might  have  been  shall  be. 

Though  in 

Some  other  realm  and  life,  the  soul  must  win 
The  goal  that  erst  was  possible.     But  cold 
And  cruel  as  the  sound  of  frozen  mold 
Dropped    on   a   coffin,    are   the    words    "  Has 
been." 

"  She  has  been  beautiful  " — "  he  has  been  great," 
"  Rome   has   been  powerful,"    we  sigh    and 
say. 


"  Has  Been."  103 

It  is  the  pitying  crust  we  toss  decay, 
The  dirge   we    breathe   o'er   some    degenerate 
state 


An  epitaph  for  fame's  unburied  dead. 
God  pity  those  who  live  to  hear  it  said. 


A  MINOR  CHORD. 

I  HEARD  a  strain  of  music  in  the  street — 
A     wandering     waif     of     sound.       And     then 

straightway 

A  nameless  desolation  filled  the  day. 
The  great  green  earth  that  had  been  fair  and 

sweet 

Seemed    but  a   tomb ;    the  life    I    thought    re 
plete 

With  joy,  grew  lonely  for  a  vanished  May. 
Forgotten  sorrows  resurrected  lay 
Like  bleaching  skeletons  about  my  feet. 
Above  me  stretched  the  silent  suffering  sky 
Dumb  with  vast  anguish  for  departed  suns 
That  brutal  time  to  nothingness  has  hurled. 
The  daylight  was  as  sad  as  smiles  that  lie 
Upon  the  wistful  unkissed    mouths  of  nuns, 
And  I  stood  prisoned  in  an  awful  world. 


LAST  LOVE. 

THE  first  flower  of  the  spring  is  not  so  fair 
Or  bright,  as  one  the  ripe  midsummer  brings. 
The  first  faint  note  the  forest  warbler  sings 
Is  not  as  rich  with  feeling,   or  so  rare 
As   when,   full  master  of  his  art,  the  air 
Drowns  in  the  liquid  sea  of  song  he  flings 
Like  silver   spray   from    beak,  and  breast,  and 

wings. 

The  artist's  earliest  effort  wrought  with  care, 
The  bard's  first  ballad,  written  in  his  tears, 
Set  by  his  later  toil  seems  poor  and  tame. 
And  into  nothing  dwindles  at  the  test. 
So  with  the  passions  of  maturer  years 
Let    those    who    will    demand    the    first    fond 

flame, 
Give  me  the  heart's  last  love,  for  that  is  best. 


DEATH'S   PROTEST. 

WHY    dost  thou    shrink   from   my  approach,    oh 

Man? 

Why  dost  thou  ever  flee  in  fear,  and  cling 
To  my  false  rival  life?    I  do  but  bring 
Thee  rest  and  calm.     Then  wherefore  dost  thou 

ban 

And  curse  me  ?     Since  the  forming  of  God's  plan 
I  have  not  hurt  or  harmed  a  mortal  thing, 
I  have  bestowed  sweet  balm  for  every  sting 
And  peace  eternal  for  earth's  stormy  span. 
The  wild  mad  prayers  for  comfort  sent  in  vain 
To  knock  at  the  indifferent  heart  of  Life 
I,  Death,  have  answered.     Knowest  thou  not  'tis 

he 

My  cruel  rival  who  sends  all  thy  pain 
And  wears  the  soul  out  in  unending  strife  ? 
Why  dost  thou  hold  to  him,  then,  spurning  me  ? 


DUTY'S    PATH. 

OUT  from  the  harbor  of  youth's  bay 

There  leads  the  path  of  pleasure ; 
With  eager  steps  we  walk  that  way 

To  brim  joy's  largest  measure. 
But  when  with  morn's  departing  beam 

Goes  youth's  last  precious  minute, 
We  sigh  "'twas  but  a  fevered  dream — 

There's  nothing  in  it." 

Then  on  our  vision  dawns  afar 

The  goal  of  glory,  gleaming 
Like  some  great  radiant  solar  star 

And  sets  us  longing,  dreaming. 
Forgetting  all  things  left  behind, 

We  strain  each  nerve  to  win  it, 
But  when  'tis  ours — alas  !  we  find 

There's  nothing  in  it. 


108  Duty's  Path. 

We  turn  our  sad,  reluctant  gaze 
Upon  the  path  of  duty ; 
Its  barren,  uninviting  ways 

Are  void  of  bloom  and  beauty. 
Yet  in  that   road,  though  dark  and  cold, 

It  seems  as  we  begin  it, 
As  we  press  on — lo  !  we  behold 
There's  Heaven  in  it. 


SEPTEMBER. 

MY  life's  long  radiant  Summer  halts  at  last 

And  lo !  beside  my  pathway  I  behold 
Pursuing  Autumn  glide :  nor  frost  nor  cold 

Has  heralded  her  presence ;  but  a  vast 
Sweet   calm   that   comes   not   till    the  year    has 
passed 

Its  fevered  solstice,  and  a  tinge  of  gold 
Subdues  the  vivid  coloring  of  bold 

And  passion-hued  emotions.     I  will  cast 
My  August  days  behind  me  with   my  May, 

Nor  strive  to  drag  them  into  Autumn's  place, 
Nor  swear  I  hope  when  I  do  but  remember. 

Now  violet  and  rose  have  had  their  day 
I'll  pluck  the  soberer  asters  with  good  grace 

And  call  September  nothing  but  September. 


MARCH. 

LIKE  some  reformer,  who  with  mien  austere, 
Neglected  dress  and  loud  insistent  tones, 
More  rasping  than  the    wrongs  which   she  be 
moans, 
Walks   through   the   land    and    wearies    all    who 

hear, 

While  yet  we  know  the  need  of  such  reform ; 
So    comes    unlovely    March,    with    wind    and 

storm, 
To  break  the  spell  of  winter,  and  set  free 

The    poisoned    brooks    and    crocus    beds    op 
pressed. 

Severe  of  face,  gaunt-armed,  and  wildly  dressed, 
She  is  not  fair  nor  beautiful  to  see. 

But  merry  April  and  sweet  smiling  May 
Come   not    till    March   has    first   prepared  the 
way. 


THE   SUMMER   GIRL. 

SHE'S  the  jauntiest  of  creatures,  she's   the  dain 
tiest  of  misses, 

With  her  pretty  patent  leathers  or  her  alliga 
tor  ties, 

With  her  eyes    inviting  glances  and  her  lips  in 
viting  kisses 

As  she  wanders  by  the  ocean  or  strolls  under 
country  skies. 

She's  a  captivating  dresser,  and  her  parasols  are 

stunning, 
Her  fads  will  take  your  breath  away,  her  hats 

are  dreams  of  style; 
She  is  not   so   very  bookish,  but   with   repartee 

and  punning 

She  can  set   the   savants    laughing   and   make 
even  dudelets  smile. 


112  The  Summer  Girl. 

She  has  no  attacks  of  talent,  she  is  not  a  stage- 
struck  maiden, 
She   is    wholly    free    from    hobbies,    and    she 

dreams  of  no    "career;" 
She  is  mostly  gay  and  happy,  never  sad  or  care 

beladen, 

Though  she  sometimes  sighs  a  little  if  a  gen 
tleman  is  near. 

She's  a  sturdy   little    walker   and    she  braves  all 

kinds  of  weather, 
And  when  the  rain  or  fog  or  mist    drive  rival 

crimps  a-wreck, 
Her   fluffy   hair   goes    curling   like    a    kinked-up 

ostrich  feather 

Around  her   ears  and    forehead  and    the  white 
nape  of  her   neck. 

She  is  like  a  fish  in  water,  she  can  handle  reins 

and   racket, 

From    head     to     toe     and     finger    tips     she's 
thoroughly  alive; 


The  Summer  Girl.  1 1 3 

When  she  goes  promenading  in  a  most  distract 
ing  jacket 

The  rustle  round  her   feet  suggests  how  laun 
dresses  may  thrive. 

She   can    dare    the    wind  and   sunshine   in    the 

most  bravado  manner, 
And    after    hours   of  sailing    she    has   merely 

cheeks  of  rose. 
Old  Sol  himself  seems  smitten  and  at  most  will 

only  tan   her, 

Though  to  everybody  else   he  gives  a  danger- 
signal  nose. 

She's  a  trifle  sentimental,  and  she's   fond  of  ad 
miration, 

And  she   sometimes   flirts  a   little   in  the   sea 
son's  giddy  whirl ; 
But  win  her  if  you  can,  sir,  she  may  prove  your 

life's  salvation, 

For  an  angel  masquerading  oft  is  she  the  sum 
mer  girl. 


SUN    SHADOWS. 

THERE  never  was  success  so  nobly  gained, 
Or  victory  so  free  from  selfish  dross 

But  in  the  winning  some  one  had  been  pained 
Or  some  one  suffered  loss. 

There  never  was  so  nobly  planned  a  fete 

Or  festal  throng  with  hearts  on  pleasure  bent 

But  some  neglected  one  outside  the  gate 
Wept  tears  of  discontent. 

There  never  was  a  bridal  morning  fair 

With   hope's  blue   skies    and   love's  unclouded 

sun 

For    two   fond    hearts,   that   did   not    bring  de 
spair 
To  some  sad  other  one. 


THOUGHTS. 

THOUGHTS  do  not  need  the  wings  of  words 

To  fly  to  any  goal. 
Like  subtle  lightnings,  not  like  birds, 

They  speed  from  soul  to  soul. 

Hide  in  your  heart  a  bitter  thought 

Still  it  has  power  to  blight. 
Think  Love,  although  you  speak  it  not, 

It  gives  the  world  more  light. 


THE   END   OF   THE    SUMMER. 

THE  birds  laugh  loud  and  long  together 

When  Fashion's  followers  speed  away 
At  the  first  cool  breath  of  autumn  weather. 

Why,  this  is  the  time,  cry  the  birds,  to  stay ! 
When  the  deep  calm  sea  and  the  deep  sky  over 

Both    look   their    passion    through    sun-kissed 

space, 
As  a  blue-eyed  maid  and  her  blue-eyed  lover 

Might  each  gaze  into  the  other's  face. 

Oh,  this  is  the  time  when  careful  spying 
Discovers  the  secrets  Nature  knows. 

You  find  when  the  butterflies  plan  for  flying 
(Before  the  thrush  or  the  blackbird  goes), 

You  see  some  day  by  the  water's  edges, 
A  brilliant  border  of  red  and  black; 


The  End  of  the  Summer.  117 

And  then  off  over  the  hills  and  hedges 
It  flutters  away  on  the  summer's  track. 

The  shy  little  sumacs,  in  lonely  places, 

Bowed  all  summer  with  dust  and  heat, 
Like  clean-clad  children  with  rain-washed  faces, 

Are  dressed  in  scarlet  from  head  to  feet. 
And  never  a  flower  had  the  boastful  summer 

In  all  the  blossoms  that  decked  her  sod, 
So  royal  hued  as  that  later  comer 

The  purple  chum  of  the  goldenrod. 

Some  chill  gray  dawn  you  note  with  grieving 

That  the  King  of  Autumn  is  on  his  way. 
You  see  with  a  sorrowful  slow  believing 

How  the  wanton  woods  have  gone  astray. 
They  wear  the  stain  of  bold  caresses, 

Of  riotous  revels  with  old  King  Frost  ; 
They  dazzle  all  eyes  with  their  gorgeous  dresses, 

Nor   care    that   their   green   young   leaves,  are 
lost. 


n8  The  End  of  the  Summer. 

A  wet  wind  blows  from  the  East  one  morning, 

The    wood's    gay    garments    looked    draggled 

out. 

You    hear  a  sound  and  your  heart  takes   warn 
ing— 

The  birds  are  planning  their  winter  route. 
They  wheel  and  settle  and  scold  and  wrangle, 

Their  tempers  are  ruffled,  their  voices  loud  ; 
Then  wJiirr — and  away  in  a  feathered  tangle 

To  fade  in  the  south  like  a  passing  cloud. 

Envoi. 

A  songless  wood  stripped  bare  of  glory — 
A  sodden  moor  that  is  black  and  brown; 

The  year  has  finished  its  last  love-story — 
Oh,  let  us  away  to  the  gay  bright  town. 


"HE  THAT   LOOKETH." 

YEA  !  she  and  I  have  broken  God's  command, 
And    in     His     sight     are    branded     with    our 

shame. 

And  yet  I  do  not  even  know  her  name, 
Nor  ever  in  my  life  have  touched  her  hand 
Or   brushed    her   garments.     But    I    chanced   to 

stand 
Beside    her    in    the    throng !     A    sweet    swift 

flame 
Shot    from    her   flesh   to    mine — and   hers    the 

blame 

Of  willing  looks  that  fed  it ;  aye,  that  fanned 
The  glow  within  me  to  a  hungry  fire. 
There  was  an  invitation  in  her  eyes. 
Had  she  met  mine  with  coldness  or  surprise 


120  "He  That  Lookcth." 

I  had  not  plunged  on  headlong  in  the  mire 
Of   amorous    thought.     The    flame    leaped    high 

and  higher  ; 

Her  breath  and  mine  pulsated  into  sighs, 
And    soft  glance  melted    into  glance  kiss-wise, 
And  in  God's  sight,  both  yielded  to  desire. 


WAIL  OF  AN   OLD-TIMER. 

EACH    new    invention    doubles    our    worries    an' 

our  troubles, 

These  scientific  fellows  are  spoilin'  of  our  land. 
With    motor,    wire,    an'    cable,    now 'days    we're 

scarcely  able 
To  walk  or   ride   in    peace   o'    mind,  an'  'tis   n't 

safe  to  stand. 

It  fairly  makes  me  crazy  to  see  how  tarnal  lazy 
The   risin'   generation   grows  —  an'   science   is   to 

blame. 
With  telephones   for  talkin',    an'   messengers  for 

walkin', 
Our  young  men  sit  an'  loaf,  an'  smoke,  without 

a  blush  o'  shame. 


122  Wail  of  an  Old-Timer. 

An'  then   they  wan't  contented    until  some   one 

invented 
A    sort    o'    jerky    tape-line    clock,    to    help    on 

wasteful  ways. 
An'   that  infernal    ticker   spends    money  fur   'em 

quicker 
Than    any    neighborhood    o'    men    in    good    old 

bygone  days. 

The  risin'  generation  is  bent  so  on  creation, 
Folks    haven't    time    to   talk    or   sing   or   cry   or 

even  laugh. 
But  if  you  take  the  notion  to  want  some  such 

emotion, 
They've  got  it  all    on  tap    fur  you,  right   in  the 

phonograph. 

But   now   a    crazy   creature   has    introduced    the 

feature 
Of     artificial     weather,     1     think     we're     nearly 

through. 


Wail  of  an  Old-Tinier.  123 

For  when  we   once   go   strainin'  to    keep  it    dry 

or  rainin' 
To     suit    the    general    public,    'twill     bust     the 

world  in  two. 


CONCENTRATION. 

THE  age  is  too  diffusive.     Time  and  Force 

Are  frittered  out  and  bring  no  satisfaction. 

The    way   seems   lost    to    straight    determined 

action. 
Like    shooting    stars    that    zig-zag    from     their 

course 
We  wander  from  our  orbit's  pathway  !  spoil 

The  role  we're  fitted  for,  to  fail  in  twenty. 

Bring   empty  measures   that    were   shaped    for 

plenty, 

At  last  as  guerdon  for  a  life  of  toil. 
There's  lack  of  greatness  in  this  generation 

Because  no  more  man  centres  on  one  thought. 

We  know  this  truth  and  yet  we  heed  it  not, 
The  secret  of  success  is  Concentration. 


A  WARNING. 

THERE  was  a  flame,  oh  such  a  tiny  flame, 
One   fleeting   hour   had    spanned    its   birth    and 
death. 

But  for  a  silly  child  with  playful  breath 
Who  fanned  it  into  fury.     It  became 
A  mighty  conflagration.     Ah  the  cost ! 
House,  home,  and  thoughtless   child    alike  were 
lost. 

Lady  beware.     Fan  not  the  harmless  glow 

Of  admiration  into  ardent  love. 

Lean  not  with  red  curled  smiling  lips  above 

The  flickering  spark  of  sinless  flame  and  blow, 

Lest  in  the  sudden  waking  of  desire 

Thou,  like  the  child,  shalt  perish  in  the  fire. 


WAS,  IS,  AND   YET-TO-BE. 

WAS,  Is,  and  Yet-to-Be 

Were  chatting  over  a  cup  of  tea. 

In  tarnished  finery  smelling  of  must, 
Was  talked  of  people  long  turned  to  dust; 

Of  titles  and  honors  and  high  estate, 
All  forgotten  or  out  of  date; 

Of  wonderful  feasts  in  the  long  ago, 

Of  pride  that  perished  with  nothing  to  show. 

"  I    loathe     the     present " — said    Was,     with     a 

groan. 
"  I  live  in  pleasures  that  I  Jiave  known." 

The  Yet-to-be,  in  a  gown  of  gauze, 
Looked  over  the  head  of  musty  Was, 


Was,  Is,  and  Yct-To-Bc.  127 

And  gazed  far  off  into  misty  space 
With  a  wrapt  expression   upon  her  face. 

"  Such  wonderful  pleasures  are  coming  to  me, 
Such  glory,  such  honor,"  said  Yet-to-be. 

"  No  one  dreamed,  in  the  vast  Has  Been 
Of  such  successes  as  I  shall  win. 

The  past,  the  present,  why  what  are  they  ? 
I  live  for  the  joy  of  a  future  day." 

Then  practical  Is,  in  a  fresh  print  dress, 
Spoke  up  with  a  laugh,  "  I  must  confess 

I  find  to-day  so  pleasant,''  she  said 
"  I  never  look  back,  and  seldom  ahead. 

What  ever  has  been,  is  a  finished  sum. 
What  ever  will  be,  why  let  it  come. 

To-day  is  mine.     And  so  you  see 
I  have  the  past  and  the  yet-to-be ; 


128  Was,  Is,  and  Yct-To-Bc. 

For  to-day  is  the  future  of  yesterday, 
And    the    past    of    to-morrow.     I    live   while    I 
may, 

And  I  think  the  secret  of  pleasure  is  this, 
And  this  alone,"  said  practical  Is. 


MISTAKES. 

GOD  sent  us  here  to  make  mistakes, 

To  strive,  to  fail,  to  re-begin. 

To  taste  the  tempting  fruit  of  sin, 
And  find  what  bitter  food  it  makes. 

To  miss  the  path,  to  go  astray, 
To  wander  blindly  in  the  night. 
But  searching,  praying  for  the  light, 

Until  at  last  we  find  the  way. 

And  looking  back  along  the  past 
We  know  we  needed  all  the  strain 
Of  fear  and  doubt  and  strife  and  pain 

To  make  us  value  peace,  at  last. 

Who  fails,   finds  later  triumph  sweet. 

Who  stumbles  once,  walks  then  with  care, 


1 30  Mistakes. 

And  knows  the  place  to  cry  "  Beware " 
To  other  unaccustomed  feet. 

Through  strife  the  slumbering  soul  awakes. 
We  learn  on  error's  troubled  route 
The  truths  we  could  not  prize  without 

The  sorrow  of  our  sad  mistakes. 


DUAL. 

You  say  that  your  nature  is  double:  that  life 
Seems  more  and  more  intricate,  complex,  and 

dual, 

Because  in  your  bosom  there  wages  the  strife 
'Twixt   an  angel  of   light   and  a  beast   that  is 

cruel : 

An  angel  who  whispers  your  spirit  has  wings, 
And  a  beast  who  would  chain   you  to  temporal 
things. 

I  listen  with  interest  to  all  you  have  told, 
And  now  let   me  give  you    my  view  of  your 

trouble ; 
You  are  to  be  envied,  not  pitied ;  I  hold 

That  every  strong  nature  is  always  made  double. 
The  beast  has  his  purpose,  he  need  not  be  slain, 
He  should  serve  the  good  angel    in  harness  and 
chain. 


132  Dual. 

The  body  that  never  knows  carnal  desires, 
The  heart    that    to  passion   is  always  a  stran- 

°~er 
t,*-1* 

Is  merely  a  furnace  with  unlighted  fires; 

It  sends    forth    no  warmth   while  it  threatens 

no  danger. 

But  who  wants  to  shiver  in  cold  safety  there? 
Touch   flame   to   the   fuel!   then    watch    it   with 

care. 

Those   wild,    fierce   emotions   that   trouble    your 

soul 
Are  sparks   from  the   great   source   of   passion 

and  power; 

Throne   reason  above   them,  and  give  it  control, 
And  turn  into  blessing  this  dangerous    dower. 
By  lightnings  unguided  destruction  is  hurled, 
But    chained    and     directed    they    gladden    the 
world. 


THE   RAPE  OF  THE   MIST. 

HIGH  o'er  the  clouds  a  sunbeam  shone, 

While  far  down  under  him, 
With  a  subtle  grace  that  was  all  her  own, 

The  mist  gleamed  fair  and  dim. 

He  looked  at  her  with  his  burning  eyes, 
And  longed  to  fall  at  her  feet ; 

Of  all  sweet  things  there  under  the  skies 
He  thought  her  the  thing  most  sweet. 

He  had  wooed  oft,  as  a  sunbeam  may, 
Wave  and  blossom  and  flower, 

But  never  before  had  he  felt  the  sway 
Of  a  great  love's  mighty  power. 

Tall  cloud  mountains  and  vast-space  seas, 
Wind  and  tempest  and  fire, 


134  The  Rape  of  the  Mist. 

What  are  obstacles  such  as  these 

To  a  heart  that  is  filled  with  desire ! 

Boldly  he  trod  over  cloud  and  star, 

Boldly  he  swam  through  space, 
She  caught  the  glow  of  his  eyes  afar 

And  veiled  her  delicate  face. 

The  mist  grew  pale  with  a  vague,  strange  fright, 

As  fond  yet  fierce  he  came, 
He  was  so  strong  and  he  was  so  bright, 

And  his  breath  was  a  breath  of  flame. 

Close  to  his  heart  she  was  clasped  and    kissed, 

She  swooned  in  love's  alarms  : 
And  dead  lay  the  beautiful  pale-faced  mist 

In  the  sunbeam's  passionate  arms. 


THE  ALL-CREATIVE   SPARK. 

PAIN  can  go  guised  as  joy,    dross  pass  for   gold, 

Vulgarity  can  masquerade  as  wit, 
Or  spite  wear  friendship's  garments ;  but  I  hold 

That  passionate  feeling  has  no  counterfeit. 
Chief  jewel  from  Jove's   crown    'twas   sent   men, 

lent 
For  inspiration  and  for  sacrament. 

Jove  never  could  have  made  the  Universe 

Had  he  not  glowed  with  passion's  sacred  fire ; 

Though  man    oft  turns    the    blessing   to  a  curse, 
And  burns    himself  on    his    own    funeral  pyre, 

Though    scarred    the    soul    be    where    its    light 
burns  bright, 

Yet  where  it  is  not,  neither  is  there  might. 


136  The  All-Creative  Spark. 

Yea,  it  was  set  in  Jove's  resplendent  crown 
When    he    created    worlds ;    that    done,    why, 
hence, 

He  cast  the  priceless,  awful  jewel  down 
To  be  man's  punishment  and  recompense. 

And  that  is  how  he  sees  and  hears  our  tears 

Unmoved  and  calm  from   the   eternal   spheres. 

But  sometimes,  since  he  parted  with  all  passion, 
In  trifling  mood,  to  pass  the  time  away, 

He  has  created  men  in  that  same  fashion, 
And  many  women    (jesting  as  gods  may), 

Who  have  no  souls  to  be  inspired  or  fired, 

Mere  sport  of   idle  gods  who  have  grown  tired. 

And  these  poor  puppets,  gazing  in  the  dark 
At    their    own    shadows,  think    the    \vorld    no 
higher  ; 

And  when  they  see  the  all-creative  spark 

In  other  souls,  they  straightway  cry  out,  "Fire!" 

And  shriek,  and  rave,  till  their  dissent  is  spent, 

While  listening  gods  laugh  loud  in  merriment. 


BE   NOT   CONTENT. 

BE  not  content,  contentment  means  inaction, 
The  growing  soul  aches   on  its  upward  quest ; 

Satiety  is  twin  to  satisfaction- 
All  great  achievements  spring  from   life's   un 
rest. 

The  tiny  roots,  deep  in  the  dark  mould  hiding, 
Would    never   bless    the    earth    with    leaf   and 

flower 
Were  not  an  inborn  restlessness  abidinec 

o 

In  seed  and  germ,  to  stir  them  with  its  power. 

Were  man  contented  with  his  lot  forever, 

He  had  not  sought  strange  seas  with  sails  un 
furled, 

And  the  vast  wonder  of   our   shores  had   never 
Dawned  on  the  gaze  of  an  admiring  world. 


138  Be  Not  Content. 

Prize   what  is  yours,  but  be  not  quite  contented. 

There  is  a  healthful  restlessness  of  soul 
By  which  a  mighty  purpose  is  augmented 

In   urging  men  to  reach  a  higher  goal. 

o        o  o  o 

So  when  the  restless  impulse  rises,   driving 
Your  calm   content  before  it,  do  not  grieve  ; 

It  is  the  upward  reaching  of  the  spirit 
Of  the  God  in  you  to  achieve,  achieve. 


ACTION. 

FOREVER  stars  are  winging 

Their  swift  and  endless  race ; 
Forever  suns  are  swinging 

o       o 

Their  mighty  globes  through  space. 
Since  by  his   law   required 
To  join  God's  spheres  inspired, 
The  earth  has  never  tired, 

But  whirled   and  whirled  and  whirled. 
Forever  streams  are  flowing, 
Forever  seeds  are  growing, 
A I  way  is  Nature  showing 

That  Action  rules  the  world. 

And  since  by  God  requested 

To  be,  the  glorious  light 
Has  never  paused  or  rested 

But  travelled  day  and  night. 


140  Action. 

Yet  pigmy  man,  unseeing 
The  purpose  of  his  being, 
Demands  escape  and  freeing 

From  universal  force. 
But  law  is  law  forever, 
And  like  a  mighty  lever 
It  thrusts  him  tow'rd  endeavor, 

And  speeds  him  on  his  course. 


TWO   ROSES. 

A  HUMBLE  wild-rose,  pink  and  slender, 

Was  plucked  and  placed  in  a  bright  bouquet, 

Beside  a  Jacqueminot's  royal  splendor, 
And  both  in  my  lady's  boudoir  lay. 

Said  the  haughty  bud,  in  a  tone  of  scorning', 
"  I  wonder  why  you  are  called  a  rose  ? 

Your  leaves  will  fade  in  a  single  morning, 
No  blood  of  mine  in  your  pale  cheek  glows. 

"  Your    coarse    green    stalk    shows    dust    of    the 
highway, 

You  have  no  depths  of  fragrant  bloom ; 
And  what  could  you  learn  in  a  rustic  byway 

To  fit  you  to  lie  in  my  lady's  room  ? 

"  If  called  to  adorn  her  warm  white  bosom, 
What  have  you  to  offer  for  such  a  place, 


142  Two  Roses. 

Beside  my  fragrant  and  splendid  blossom, 
Ripe  with  color  and  rich  with  grace  ? " 

Said  the  sweet  wild-rose,  "  Despite  your  dower 
Of  finer  breeding  and  deeper  hue, 

Despite  your  beauty,  fair,  high-bred  flower, 
It  is  I  who  should  lie  on  her  breast,  not  you. 

"  For  small  account  is  your  hot-house  glory 
Beside  the  knowledge  that  came  to  me 

When  I  heard  by  the  wayside  love's  old  story, 
And  felt  the  kiss  of  the  amorous  bee." 


SHRINES. 

ABOUT  a  holy  shrine  or  sacred  place 

Where    many    hearts    have   bowed   in    earnest 
prayer, 

The  loveliest  spirits  congregate  from  space, 
And  bring  their  sweet  uplifting  influence  there. 

If  in  your  chamber  you  pray  oft  and  well, 
Soon  will  these  angel  messengers  arrive 

And    make    their    home   with    you,    and    where 

they  dwell 
All  worthy  toil  and  purposes  shall  thrive. 

I  know  a  humble  plainly  furnished  room, 

So  thronged  with  presences  serene  and  bright, 

The  heaviest  heart  therein  forgets  its  gloom 
As  in  some  gorgeous  temple  rilled  with  light. 


144  Shrines. 

Those  heavenly  spirits,  beauteous  and  divine, 
Live  only  in  an  atmosphere  of  prayer; 

Make  for  yourself  a  sacred,  fervent  shrine, 
And  you  will  find  them  swiftly  flocking  there. 


SATIETY. 

To  yearn  for  what  we  have  not  had,  to  sit 
With  hungry  eyes  glued  on  the  Future's  gate, 

Why  that  is  heaven  compared  to  having  it 
With  all  the  power  gone  to  appreciate. 

Better  to  wait  and  yearn,  and  still  to  wait, 
And  die  at  last  with  unappeased  desire, 

Than  live  to  be  the  jest  of  such  a  fate, 
For  that  is  my  conception  of  hell-fire. 


THE  WATCHER. 

SHE  gave  her  soul  and  body  for  a  carriage, 
And  liveried  lackey  with  a  vacant  grin, 

And    all    the    rest — house,    lands — and    called    it 

marriage — 
The  bargain  made,  a  husband  was  thrown  in. 

And  now,  despite  her  luxury,  she's  faded, 

Gone    is    the    bloom    that    was    so    fresh    and 

bright ; 
She  has  the  dark-rimmed    eye,   the  countenance 

jaded, 
Of  one  who  watches  with  the  sick  at  night. 

Ah,  heaven,  she  does  !  her  sick  heart,  sick  and 

dying, 
Beyond  the  aid  of  human  skill  to  save, 


The    Watcher.  147 

In  that  cold  room  her  breast  is  hourly  lying, 
And  her  grim  thoughts  crowd  near  to  dig  its 
grave. 

And  yet  it  lingers,  suffering  and  wailing, 
As  sick  hearts  will  that  feed  upon  despair, 

And  that  lone  watcher,  unrelieved,  is  paling 
With  vigils  that  no  pitying  soul  can  share. 

Ah,  lady  !  it  is  hardly  what  you  thought  it, 
This  life  of  luxury  and  social  power ; 

You  gave  yourself  as  principal  and  bought  it, 
But   God   extracts  the  interest  hour  by  hour. 


A   SOLAR   ECLIPSE. 

IN  that  great  journey  of  the  stars  through  space 
About  the  mighty,  all-directing  Sun, 
The  pallid,  faithful  Moon,  has  been  the  one 

Companion  of  the  Earth.     Her  tender  face, 

Pale  with  the  swift,   keen  purpose  of  that   race 
Which  at  Time's  natal  hour  was  first  begun, 
Shines  ever  on  her  lover  as  they  run 

And  lights  his  orbit  with  her  silvery  smile. 

Sometimes  such  passionate  love  doth  in  her  rise, 
Down  from  her  beaten  path  she  softly  slips, 

And  with  her  mantle  veils  the  Sun's  bold  eyes, 
Then  in  the  gloaming  finds  her  lover's  lips. 

While  far  and  near  the  men  our  world  call  wise 
See  only  that  the  Sun  is  in  eclipse. 


THE   DEPTHS. 

NOT  only  sun-kissed  heights  are  fair.     Below 
The  cold,  dark  billows  of  the  frowning  deep 
Do  lovely  blossoms  of  the  ocean  sleep, 

Rocked  gently  by  the  waters  to  and  fro. 

The  coral  beds  with  magic  colors  glow, 

And  priceless  pearl-encrusted  mollusks  heap 
The  glittering  rocks  where  shining  atoms  leap 

Like  living  broken  rainbows. 

Even  so 

We  find  the  sea  of  sorrow.     Black  as  night 
The  sullen  surface  meets  our  frightened  gaze. 
As  down  we  sink  to  darkness  and  despair. 
But  at  the  depths  !   such  beauty,  such  delight ! 
Such  flowers  as  never  grew  in  pleasure's  ways. 
Ah  !   not  alone  are  sun-kissed  summits  fair. 


A  SUGGESTION. 

To  C.  A.   D. 

LET  the  wild   red-rose  bloom.     Though   not   to 
thee 

So  delicately  perfect  as  the  white 

And  unwed  lily  drooping  in  the  light, 
Though  she  has  known  the  kisses  of  the  bee 

And  tells  her  amorous  tale  to  passers-by 
In  perfumed  whispers  and  with  untaught  grace, 
Still  let  the  red-rose  bloom  in  her  own  place  ; 

She  could  not  be  the  lily  should  she  try. 

Why  to  the  wondrous  nightingale  cry  hush, 
Or  bid  her  cease  her  wild  heart-breaking  lay, 
And  tune  her  voice  to  imitate  the  way 

The  whip-poor-will  makes  music,  or  the  thrush? 


A  Suggestion.  151 

All  airs  of  sorrow  to  one  theme  belong 
And  passion  is  not  copyrighted  yet. 
Each  heart  writes  its  own  music.     Why  not  let 

The  nightingale  unchided  sing  her  song? 


LIFE'S  OPERA. 

LlKE  an  opera-house  is  the  world  I  ween, 
Where  the  passionate  lover  of  music  is  seen 

In  the  balcony  near  the  roof : 
While  the  very  best  seat  in  the  first  stage-box 
Is  filled  by  the  person  who  laughs  and  talks 

Through  the  harmony's  warp  and  woof. 


LUCK. 

LUCK  is  the  tuning  of  our  inmost  thought 
To  chord  with  God's  great  plan.     That  done, 

ah,  know, 

Thy  silent  wishes  to  results  shall  grow, 
And  day  by  day  shall  miracles  be  wrought. 
Once  let  thy  being  selflessly  be  brought 
To  chime  with  universal  good,  and   lo ! 
What    music    from  the    spheres  shall    through 

thee  flow! 

What  benefits  shall  come  to  thee  unsought ! 
Shut  out  the  noise  of  traffic  !     Rise  above 
The  body's  clamor  !     With  the  soul's  fine  ear 
Attune  thyself  to  harmonies  divine. 
All,  all  are  written  in  the  key  of  Love ; 

Keep    to  the    score,  and    thou  hast   naught  to 

fear, 

Achievements    yet     undreamed    of     shall     be 
thine. 


THE   SALT   SEA-WIND. 

WHEN  Venus,  mother  and  maker  of  blisses, 
Rose    out     of   the    billows,    large-limbed,    and 
fair, 

She   stood    on   the   sands  and  blew  sweet  kisses 
To  the  salt  sea-wind  as  she  dried  her  hair. 

And   the   salt   sea-wind    was   the   first    to   caress 

her, 

To  praise  her  beauty  and  call  her  sweet, 
The   first    of   the   whole   wide   world    to   possess 

her, 
She,  that  creature  of  light  and  heat. 

Though    the    sea    is   old    with    its   sorrows   and 

angers, 

And  the  world  has    forgotten    why    love   was 
born, 


The  Salt  Sea- Wind.  155 

Yet  the  salt  sea-wind  is  full  of  the  languors 
That  Venus  taught  on  her  natal  morn. 

And  now  whoever  dwells  there  by  the  ocean, 
And   feels  the  wind  on  his  hair  and  face, 

Is  stirred  by  a  subtle  and  keen  emotion, 
The  lingering  spell  of  that  first  embrace. 


NEVER   MIND. 

WHATEVER  your  work  and  whatever  its  worth, 

No  matter  how  strong  or  clever, 
Some  one  will  sneer  if  you  pause  to  hear 

And  scoff  at  your  best  endeavor. 
For  the  target  art  has  a  broad  expanse, 

And  wherever  you  chance  to  hit  it, 
Though  close  be  your  aim  to  the  bullseye  fame, 

There  are  those  who  will  never  admit  it. 

Though   the    house    applauds    while    the    artist 
plays 

And  a  smiling  world  adores  him, 
Somebody  is  there  with  an  ennuied  air 

To  say  that  the  acting  bores  him. 
For  the  tower  of  art  has  a  lofty  spire 

With  many  a  stair  and  landing, 


Never  Mind.  157 

And  those  who  climb  seem  small  oft  time 
To  one  at  the  bottom  standing. 

So  work  along  in  your  chosen  niche 

With  a  steady  purpose  to  nerve  you  ; 
Let  nothing  men  say  who  pass  your  way 

Relax  your  courage  or  swerve  you. 
The  idle  will  flock  by  the  Temple  of  Art 

For  just  the  pleasure  of  gazing, 
But  climb  to  the  top  and  do  not  stop 

Though  they  may  not  all  be  praising. 


41494 


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from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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